(7279.)  In  Trinity  Churchyard,  New  York, 
is  a  tombstone  to  the  memory  of  Charlotte 
Temple,  and  it  has  often  been  connected 
with  the  story  of  that  name  by  Mrs.  Rowson, 
which  delighted  and  saddened  our  grand- 
mothers. Is  it  true  that  the  Charlotte  Tem- 
ple of  the  story  lies  beneath  that  stone,  and 
Las  her  history  been  recorded  faithfully  by 
Mrs.  Rowson?  E.  E.  M. 

[Charlotte  Tem^e  was  buried  in  the  local- 
ity indicated.  The  story  of  her  life,  so  far  as 
possible,  was  faithfully  followed  by  Mrs. 
jRowson.] 


I 


CHARLQTT|C 

A  TALE  OF  TRUTH 


BY  MRS. 

JJVTE  OF  THE  NEW  THEATRE,  PHILADELPHIA.; 
JL^riSpB  OJ  VICTORIA,  INaUISITOR,  FIM.SDI  CBBlMBR^  &£< 


NEW- YORK: 
PUBLISHED  BY  EVERT  DUYCKINCKj 

SQ,    102   PEARL-STREET, 

George  Long,  Printer. 


1814- 


CHARLOTTE  TEMPLE. 


CHAP.  I. 

A  -BOARDING    SCHOOL, 

*  ARE  you  for  a  walk,'  said  Montraville  to  hi* 
companion,  as  they  arose  from  table  ;  *  are  you  for 
a  walk  ?  or  shall  we  order  a  chaise  and  proceed  to 
Portsmouth  ?'  Belcour  preferred  the  former  ;  and 
they  sauntered  out  to  view  the  town,  and  to  make 
remarks  on  the  inhabitants,  as  they  returned  from 
the  church. 

Montraville  was  a  Lieutenant  in  the  army  :  Bel- 
cour was  his  brother  officer  :  they  had  been  to  take 
leave  of  their  friends  previous  to  their  departure  for 
America,  and  were  now  returning  to  Portsmouth, 
•where  the  troops  waited  orders  for  embarkation.— 
They  had  stopped  at  Chichester  to  dine ;  and  know- 
ing they  had  sufficient  time  to  reach  the  place  of 
destination  before  dark,  and  yet  allow  them  a  walk, 
had  resolved,  it  being  Sunday  afternoon,  to  take  a 
survey  of  the  Ghichester  ladies  as  they  returned 
from  their  devotions. 

They  had  gratified  their  curiosity,  and  were  pre* 
paring  to  return  to  the  inn  without  honoring  any  of 
the  belles  with  particular  notice,  when  Madame  Dix 
Pont,  at  the  head  of  her  school,  descended  from  the; 
*  church.    Such  an  assemblage  of  youth  and  inno- 
cence naturally  attracted  the  young  soldiers  ;  they 
stopped  ;  and,  as  the  little  cavalcade  passed,  almost 
involuntarily  pulled  off  their  hats-    A   tall,* elegant 
girl  looked  at  Montraville,  and  blushed  :  he  instant- 
ly recollected  the   features  of  Charlotte  Tt 
whom  he  had  once  seen  and  danced  witfi  at  a  ball  at 
Portsmouth.    At  that  time  he  thought  on  he. 
as  a  very  lovely  child,  she  being  then  only  thirteen "; 
but  the  improvement  two  years  had  made  in  her 
person,  and  the  blu-h  of  recollection  which  siifTused 
her  cheeks,  as  she  passed,  awakened  in '  his -bosom 
new  and   pleasing  ideas.    Vanity  led  him  -to  think 
that  pleasure  at  again  beholding  him,  might  have 
occasioned  the  emotion  he  had  witnessed, "ar.ci  the 
same  vanity  led  him  to  wish  to  see  her  again. 

'  She  is  the  sweetest  eirl  in  t,he  world/  saig  he 


he  entered  the  inn.  Belcour  stared.  *  Did  you 
not  notice  her  ?'  continred  Montraville  :  '  she'  had 
on  a  blue  bonnet,  and  with  a  pair  of  lovely  eyes  of 
the  same  color,  has  contrived  to  make  me  feel  dev- 
ilish odd  about  the  heart.* 

'  ?ho,'  said  Belcour,  •  a  musket  ball  from  our 
friends  the  Americans,  may  in  less  than  two  months 
make  you  feel  worse.' 

'  I  never  think  of  the  future,'  replied  Montraville  J 
*  but  am  determined  to  make  the  most  of  the  pres- 
Wit,  and  would  willingly  compound  with  any  kind 
familiar  who  would  inform  me  who  the  girl  is,  and 
how  I  might  be  likely  to  obtain  an  interview.' 

But  n'  kind  familiar  at  that  time  appearing,  and 
tTie  chaise  which  they  had  ordered  driving  up  to  the 
door,  Montraville  and  his  companion  were  obliged 
to  take  leave  of  Chichester,  and  its  fair  inhabitants 
and  proceed  on  their  journey. 

But  Charlotte  had  made  too  great  an  impression 
cm  his  mind  to  be.  easily  eradicated  :  having  there- 
fore spent  three  whole  days  in  thinking  on  her  and 
in  endeavoring  to  form  some  plan  for  seeing  her, 
lie  determined  to  set  off  for  ChichesteV,  and  trust  to 
«&anct-  either  to  favor  or  frustrate  his  designs.  Ar- 
riving at  the  verge  of  the  town;  be  dismounted*  and 
^Sending  the  servant  forward  with  the  horses,  pro- 
ceeded toward  the  place,  where,  MI  the  midst  of  an  * 
extensive  pleasure  trround,  stood  the  mansion  which 
contained  the  lovely  Charlotte  Temple.  Montra- 
ville leaned  on  a  broken  gate,  and  looked  earnestly 
at  the  house.  The  wall  which  surrounded  it  was 
hi&h.  and  perhaps  the  Arguses  who  guarded  the 
Hesperian  fruit  within,  were  more  watchful  than 
thobe  famed  of  old. 

*  'Tis  a  romantic  attempt '  said  he  ;  *  and  should  I 
even  succeed  in  seeing  and  conversing  with  lu -r,  it 
ean  be  productive  of  no  good  :  I,  must  of  necessity 
leave  England  in  a  few  days,  and  probably  may  nev- 
er return.  Why  thrn  should  1  .endeavor  to  engage 
the  affections  »tf  this  tovelv  girl,  only  to  leave  her  a 
t>rey  to  a  thousand  inquietudes  of  winch  at  present 
sfre  has  no  idea  ?  I  wilt  return  to  Portsmouth,  anfl 
think  no  more  about,  her !' 


t  *  ] 

The  evening  now  was  closed ;  a  serene  stillness 
reigr.ed  ;  and  the  chaste  Queen  of  Night,  with  her 
silver  crescent,  faintly  illuminated  the  hemisphere. 
The  mind  of  Montraville  was  hushed  into  compo- 
sure by  the  serenity  of  the  surrounding  objects,  «  I 
•will  think  on  her  no  more,  said  he,  and  turned  with 
an  intention  to  leave  the  place  ;  but  as  he  turned , 
he  saw  the  gate  which  led  to  the  pleasure  grounds 
open,  and  two  women  come  out,  who  walked  arm  in 
arm  across  the  field. 

'  I  will  at  least  see  who  these  are/  said  he.  He 
overtook  them,  and  giving  them  the  compliments  of 
the  evening,  begged  leave  to  see  them  into  the  more 
frequented  parts  of  the  town  ;  but  how  was  he  de- 
lighted, when,  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  discovered, 
under  the  concealment  of  a  large  bonnet,  the  face 
of  Charlotte  Temple 

He  soon  found  means  to  ingratiate  himself  with 
her  companion,  who  was  a  French  teacher  at  the 
school ;  and,  at  parting,  slipped  a  letter  he  had  pur- 
posely written,  into  Charlotte's  hand,  and  five  guin- 
eas into  that  of  Mademoiselle,  who  promised  she* 
would  endeavor  to  bring  her  young  charge  into  the 
field  again  the  next  evening. 

CHApTlI. 

DOMESTIC  CONCERNS. 

MR.  Temple  was  the  youngest  son  of  a  noble* 
man  whose  fortune  was  by  r-o  means  adequate 
to  the  antiquity,  grandeur,  and,  I  may  add,  pride  of 
the  family.  He  saw  his  elder  brother  made  com 
pletely  wretched,  by  marrying  a  disagreeable  wo 
man,  whose  fortune  helped  to  prop  the  sinking  dig- 
nity of  the  house;  and  he  beheld  his  sisters  legal- 
ly prostituted  to  old,  decrepid  men,  whose  titles 
gave  them  con*  quence  in  the  eyes  ot  the  world, 
and  whose  affluence  rendered  them  splendidly  mis- 
erable. *  I  will  not  sacrifice  internal  happiness  for 
outward  show,'  said  he  :  *!  will  seek  Content :  and 
?.t  I  find  her  in  a  cottage,  will  embrace  her  with  as 
much  cordiality  as  I  should gf  seated  on  a  throne/ 

Mr.  Temple  possessed  a  smajyi  estate,  of  abou£ 
A3 


live  hundred  pounds  a  year  ;  and  with  that  he  re- 
solved to  preserve  imkpe  >.arry  where 
the  ferlings  of  his  heart  should  direct  him,  and  to 
confine  his  expences  within  the  limits  of  his  in- 
come. He  had  a  heart  open  to  every  generous 
feel <ng  of  humanity,  and  a  hand  ready  to  dispense 
to  those  who  wanted  part  of  the  blessings  he  enjoy- 
ed himself 

As  he  was  universally  known  to  be  the  friend 
of  the  unfortunate,  his  advise  and  bounty  was  fre- 
quently solicited  ;  nor  was  it  seldom  that  he  sought 
out  indigent  merit,  and  raised  it  from  obscurity, 
confining  his  own  expences  within  a  very  narrow 
compass. 

*  You  are  a  benevolent  fellow/  said  a  young  offi- 
cer to   him  one  day  ;  •  and  I  have  a  great  mind  to 
give  you  a  fine  subject  to  exercise  the  goodness  of 
your  heart  upon  f 

*  You  cannot    oblige    me  more,'  said  Temple, 
*  than  to  point  any  way  by  which  I  can  be  service- 
able to  my  fellow  creatures.* 

*  Come   along  then,'  said  the  young  man,  *  we 
•will  go  and  visit  a  man  who  is  not  in  so  good  a  lodg- 
ing as  he  deserves  ;  and,  were  it  not  that  he  has  an 
angel  with  him,  who  comforts  and  supports  him,  he 
must  long  since  have  sunk  under  his  misfortunes/ 
The  young  man's  heart  was  too  full  to  proceed  ;  and 
Temple,  unwilling  to  irritate  his  feelings  by  mak- 
ing further  enquiries,  followed  him  in  silence,  till 
they  arrived  at  the  Fleet  prison. 

The  officer  enquired  for  Captain  Eldridge:  a 
person  led  them  up  several  pair  of  dirty  stairs,  and 
pointing  to  a  door  which  led  to  a  miserable,  small 
Apartment,  said  that  was  the  Captain's  room  and 
retired. 

The  "fficer,  whose  name  was  Blakeney,  tapped  at 
the  door,  and  was  bid  to  enter  by  a  voice  melodious- 
ly soft  Pie  opened,  the  door,  and  discovered  to 
Temple  a  scene  which  ri vetted  him  to  the  spot  with 
astoiUsnm.f.-t 

The  apartment,  though  small,  and  bearing  strong 
ir.ark>  >t  pui  rrty,  was  neat  in  the  extreme.  In  an 
ara-Ghair,  his  head  reclined  upon  his  hand,  his  eyes 


fixed  on  a  book  wkich  lay  open  before  him,  sat  an 
aged  man  in  a  Lieutenant's  uniform,  which,  though 
threadbare,  would  sooner  call  a  blush  of  shame  into 
the  face  of  those  who  could  neglect  real  merit,  than 
cause  the  hectic  of  confusion  to  glow  on  the  cheeks 
of  him  who  wore  it 

Beside  him  sat  a  lovely  creature,  busied  in  paint- 
ing a  fan  mount.  She  was  fair  as  the  lily,  but  sor- 
row had  nipped  the  rose  in  her  cheek  bt  fore  it  was 
half  blown.  Her  eyes  were  blue  ;  and  her  hair, 
which  was  light  brown,  was  slightly  confined  under 
a  plain  muslin  cap,  tied  round  with  a  black  ribbon ; 
a  white  linen  gown  and  plain  lawn  handkerchief, 
composed  the  remainder  of  her  dress ;  and  in  this 
simple  attire,  she  was  more  irresistibly  charming  to 
such  a  heart  as  Temple's,  than  she  would  have  been 
it  adorned  with  all  the  splendor  of  a  courtly  belle. 

When  they  entered,  the  old  man  arose  fro;  his 
§eat,  and  shaking  Blakeney  by  the  hand  with  great 
cordiality,  offered  Temple  his  chair  ;  and  there  be- 
ing but  three  in  the  room,  seated  himself  on  the 
side  of  his  little  bed,  with  evident  composure. 

*  This  is  a  strange  place/  said  he  to  Temple,  *  to 
receive  visitors  of  distinction  in  ;  but  we  must  fit 
our  feelings  to  our  station.  While  I  am  not  asham- 
ed to  own  the  cause  that  brought  me  here,  why 
should  I  blosh  at  my  situation  ?  Our  misfortunes  are 
not  our  faults  ;  and  were  it  not  for  that  poor  girl — 
Here  the  philosopher  was  lost  in  the  father.  He 
rose  hastily  from  his  seat,  and  walking  toward  the 
•window,  wiped  offa  tear  which  he  was  afraid  would 
tarnish  the  cheek  of  a  sailor. 

Temple  cast  his  eye  on  Miss  Eldridge  ;  a  pellu- 
cid drop  had  stolen  from  her  eyes,  and  fallen  upon  a 
rose  she  was  painting  It  blotted  and  discolored 
the  flower.  '  'Tis  emblematic,*  said  he  mentally  i 
*  the  rose  of  youth  and  health  soon  fades  when  wa- 
tered by  the  tear  of  affliction/ 

4  My  friend  Blakenty,'  said  he,  addressing  the 
old  man, '  told  me  i  could  be  of  service  to  you  :  be 
so  kind  then,  dear  sir,  as  to  point  out  soim  way  in 
which  I  can  relieve  the  anxiety  of  your  keart>  and 
increase  the  pleasure  of  my  own. 


[  8  ] 

c  My  good  young  man,'  said  Eldridge,  *  yonkno*v 
mot  what  you  offer  While  deprived  of  my  liberty 
I  cannot  be  free  from  anxiety  on  my  own  account"; 
but  that  is  a  trifling  concern  ;  my  anxious  thoughts 
extend  to  one  more  dear  a  thousand  times  than  life  ; 
I  am  a  poor  weak  old  man,  and  must  expect  in  a 
few  years  to  sink  into  silence  and  oblivion;  but 
•when  I  am  gone,  who  will  protect  that  fair  bud  of 
innocence  from  the  blast  of  adversity,  or  from  the 
cruel  hand  of  insult  and  dishonour  ?' 

'  Oh,  my  father  !'  cried  Miss  Eldridge,  tenderly 
taking  his  hand  :  *  be  not  anxious  on  that  account; 
for  daily  are  my  prayers  offered  to  heaven  that  our 
lives  may  terminate  at  the  same  instant,  and  one 
grave  receive  us  both  :  for  why  should  I  live  when 
deprived  of  my  only  friend  ?' 

Temple  was  moved  even  to  tears.  '  You  will 
both  live  many  years,'  said  he,  and  1  hope  see  much 
happiness.  Cheerly,  my  friend,  cheerly ;  these^ 
passing  clouds  of  adversity  will  serve  only  to  make* 
the  sunshine  of  prosperity  more  pleasing.  But  we 
are  losing  time ;  you  might  ere  this  have  told  me 
•who  were  your  creditors,  what  were  their  demands, 
and  other  particulars  necessary  to  your  liberation.' 

'  My  story  is  short,'  said  Mr.  Eldridge  ;  *but  there 
are  some  particulars  which  will  wring  my  heart 
barely  to  remember ;  yet  to  one  whose  offers  of 
friendship  appear  so  open  and  disinterested,  1  will 
relate  every  circumstance  that  led  to  my  present 
painful  situation  Hut  my  child,'  continued  he,  ad- 
dressing his  daughter,*  let  me  prevail  on  you  to 
take  this  opportunity,  while  my  friends  are  with 
me,  to  enjoy  the  benefit  of  air  and  exercise.  Go, 
iT»y  love  ;  leave  me  now  ;  to-morrow  aryour  usual 
hour  1  will  expect  you.' 

Miss  Eldriu^e  impressed  on  his  cheek  the  kiss  of 
filial  affection,  and  obeyed. 

CHAP""  in. 

UNEXPECTED  MISFORTUNES. 

«  MY  life,'  said  Mr  Eldridge,  *  till  within  these 
f;w  years,  was  marked  by  no  particular  cir- 
cumstances deserving  notice*  I  early 


[9] 

ilie  ]ife  ol:  a  sailor,  and  have  served  my  king  with 
unremitting  ardor  for  many  years  At  the  age  of 
twenty-live  I  married  an  amiable  woman  ;  one  son 
and  the  girl  who  just  now  left  us,  were  the  fruits  of 
our  union.  My  boy  had  genius  and  spirit  1  strait- 
ened my  little  income  to  give  him  si  liberal  educa- 
tion, but  the  rapid  progress  he  made  in  his  studies 
amply  compensated  tor  the  inco  ivenience.  At  the 
academy  where  he  received  his  education,  he  com- 
menced an  acquaintance  with  a  Mr  Lewis,  a  young 
man  of  affluent  fortune.  As  they  grew  up,  their  in- 
timacy ripened  into  friendship,  and  they  became 
almost  inseparable  companions 

*  George  chose  the  profession  of  a  soldiev     I  had 
neither  friends  nor  money  to  procure  him  a  com- 
mission, and  had  wished  him  to  embrace  a  nautical 
life ;  but  this  was  repugnant  to  his  wishes,  and  I 
ceased  to  urge  him  on  the  subject 

*  The  friendship  subsisting  between  Lewis  and 
my  son  was  of  such  a  nature  us  give  him  free  ac- 
cess to  our  family  ;  and  so  specious  was  his  manner 
that  we  hesitated  not  to  state  to  him  all   our  little 
difficulties  in  regard  to  George's  future  views.     He 
listened  to  us  with  attention,  and  <  ffl  red  to  advance 
•any  sum  necessary  for  his  first  setting  out. 

4  1  en.oraced  this  offer,  find  ir'-ve  him  my  note 
for  the  payment  of  it,  but  he  would  net  suffer  me 
to  mention  any  stipulated  time,  as  he  said  1  mi^ht 
do  it  whenever  most  convenient  to  myself.  About 
this  tune  my  dear  Lucy  returned  from  school,  and 
4  -r.-.mn  began  to  imagine  Lewis  looked  at  her  with, 
eyes  ot  affect ior.  I  gave  my  child  a  caution  to  be- 
"ware  ofhim,  and  to  look  on  her  mother  as  her  fjieitd. 
She  wa;s  unrsfiVciedly  artless;  and  when,  as  I  sus- 
p<  cted,  Lewis  made  professions  of  love,  she  confid- 
ed in  her  parents,  and  assured  us  her  heart  was 
perfectly  unbiassed  in  his  favor,  and  she  would 
ciu'.er;\'ily  submit  to  our  direciion. 

*  I  took  an  early  opportunity  of  questioning  him 
concerning  hib  intentions  towards  n.y  child  :  he  gave 

sivccaJ  an -A  <>•.-,  a.:d  1  forbade  him  the  house. 
^  1  he  next  day  be  scut  and  demanded  paym^ni 
cThis  iiioiiv-y.     It  was  not  in  my  power  to  coniplj 


\vith  the  demand.  I  requested  three  days  to  sndea 
vor  to  i^aise  it,  determining  in  that  time  to  mortgage 
my  half  pay,  and  live  on  a  small  annuity  which  my 
wife  po.*~ssed,  rather  than  be  under  an  obligation 
to  so  worthless  a  man  :  but  this  short  time  was  not 
allowed  me  ;  for  that  evening,  as  I  was  sitting  down 
to  supper,  unsuspicious  of  danger,  an  officer  entered, 
and  tore  me  from  the  embraces  of  my  family 

*  My  wife  had  been  for  some  time  in  a  declining 
state  of  health  ;  ruin  at  once  so  unexpected  and  in- 
evitable, was  a  stroke  she  was  not  prepared  to  bear, 
and  1  saw  her  faint  into  the  arms  of  our  servant, 
as  I  left  my  own  habitation  for  the  comfortless  walls 
of  a  prison.  My  poor  Lucy,  distracted  with  her 
fears  for  us  both,  sunk  on  the  floor  and  endeavouredi 
to  detain  me  by  her  feeble  efforts ;  but  in  vain  ; 
they  forced  open  her  arms  ;  she  shrieked,  and  fell 
prostrate.  But  pardon  me ;  the  horrors^  of  that 
night  unman  me  ;  i  cannot  proceed.' 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  walked  several  times 
across  the  room :  at  length,  attaining  more  compo- 
sure, he  cried — *  What  a  mere  infant  I  am  ?  Why, 
Sir,  I  never  felt  thus  in  the  day  of  battle." 

4No,'  said  Temple  ;  *  but  the  truly  brave  soul  is 
tremblingly  alive  to  the  feelings  of  humanity,' 

'  True*/  replied  the  old  man,  ( something  like  sat- 
isfaction darting  across  his  features,)  *  and  painful 
as  these  feelings  are,  I  would  not  exchange  them 
for  that  torpor  which  the  stoic  mistakes  for  philos 
ophy.  How  many  exquisite  delights  should  I  have 
passed  by  unnoticed,  but  for  these  keen  sensations, 
this  quick  sense  of  happiness  or  misery  ?  Then 
let  us,  my  friend,  take  the  cup  of  life  as  it  is  pre- 
sented to  us,  tempered  by  the  hand  of  a  wise  Prov- 
idence ;  be  thankful  for  the  good,  be  patient  unto 
-the  evil,  and  presume  not  to  enquire  why  the  latter 
predominates.' 

4  This  is  true  philosophy,'  said  Temple. 

*/Tis  the  only  way  to  reconcile  ourbelves  to  the 
cross  events  of  life,'  replied  he.  '  But  1  forget 
myself.  I  will  no  longer  intrude  on  your  patience, 
but  proceed  in  my  melancholy  tale. 

6  Tii-e  very  evening  that  I  wa^  taken  to  prisoD, 


t  "  3. 

Irelai 


a^y  son  arrived  from  Ireland,  Cher's  He  had 
some  time  with  his  regiment.  From  the  distract- 
ed expressions  of  his  mother  and  sister,  he  learnt 
by  whom  I  had  been  arrested  ;  and,  late  as  it  was, 
flew  on  the  wings  of  wounded  affection,  to  the  housfe 
of  his  false  friend,  and  earnestly  enquired  the  cause 
of  this  cruel  conduct.  With  all  the  calmness  of  a 
cool  deliberate  villain,  he  avowed  his  passion  for 
Lucy ;  declared  her  situation  in  life  would  not  per- 
init  him  to  marry  her  ;  but  offered  to  release  me 
immediately,  and  make  any  settlement  on  her,  ff 
George  would  persuade  her  to  live,  as  he  impious? 
ly  termed  it,  a  life  of  honor. 

*  Fired  at  the  insult  offered  to  a  man  and  a  sol- 
dier, my  boy  struck  the  villain,  and  a  challenge  en- 
sued. He  than  went  to  a  coffee-house  in  the  heigh  • 
borhood  and  wrote  a  long  affectionate  letter  to  me> 
blaming  himself  severely  for  having  introduced- 
Lewis  into  the  family,  or  permitted  him  to  confer- 
an  obligation  which  had  brought  ruin  on  us  all. — 
He  begged  me,  whatever  might  be  the  event  of  the 
ensuing  morning,  not  to  suffer  regret  or  unavail- 
ing sorrow  for  his  fate,  to  increase  the  anguish  of 
my  heart,  which  he  greatly  feared  was  already  in- 
supportable, 

"  This  letter  was  delivered  to  me  early  in  the 
morning.  It  would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  describe 
ing  my  feelings  on  the  perusal  of  it ;  suffice  it  to 
say  that  a  merciful  Providence  interposed,  and  I 
was  for  three  weeks  insensible  to  miseries  almost 
beyond  the  strength  of  human  nature  to  support.. 

'*  A  fever  and  strong  delirium  seized  me,  and  my 
life  was  despaired  of.  At  length,  nature,  overpow- 
ered with  fatigue,  gave  way  to  the  salutary  power*  • 
of  rest,  und  a  quiet  slumber  of  some  hotii's  restor- 
ed me  to  reason,  though  the  extreme  weakness  o£ 
my  frame  prevented  my  feeling  my  distress  so. 
acutely  as  I  otherwise  should.  . 

"  The  first  object  tbat  struck  me  on  awaking,  was1 
Lucy  sitting  by  my  bed  side  ;  her  pale  countenance- 
and  sable  dress  prevented  my  enquiries  for  poor 
George  ;  for  the  letter  I  had  received  from  hini 
5  grst  thing  ttat  0g£urr.ed  to  my 


[  121 

By  degrees  the  rest- returned.  *I  recollected  being1 
arrested,  but  could  no  way  account  for  being  in  thfs 
apartment,  whither  they  had  conveyed  me  during 
my  illness. 

44  I  was  so  weak  as  to  be  almost  unable  to  speak, 
pressed  Lucy's  hand  and  looked  earnestly  round 
the  apartment,  in  search  of  another  dear  obj' 

'*  Where  is  your  mother  ?"  said  I,  faintly. 

"  The  poor  girl  could  not  answer  :  she  shnctfc  her 
head  in  expressive  silence  ;  and  throwing  herself 
on  the  bed,  folded  her  arms  about  me,  and  burst 
into  tears, 

"  What !  both  gone  ?»'  said  !. 

"  Both,"  she  replied,  endeavoring  to  restrain  her 
emotions  ;  *"  but  they  are  happy,  no  doubt." 

Here  Mr  Eldridge  pained;  the  recollection  of 
the  scene  was  too  painful  to  permit  him  to  proceed, 

CHAP.  IV. — CHANGE    OF    FORTUNF.. 

"  It  was  some  days,  "  continued 'Mr.  Eldndge,  re- 
covering himself,  **  before  1  could  venture  to 
enquire  the  particulars  of  what  had  happened  during 
my  iliness  At  length  *  assumed  courage  to  ask 
my  dear  girl  how  long  her  mother  and  brother  had 
been  dead  ;  she  told  me  that  the  morning  after  my 
arrest,  George  came  home  early  to  enquire  after 
other's  health,  staid  with  them  but  a  few  min- 
utes, seemed  greatly  agitated  at  parting,  but  p.ave 
them  strict  charge  to  keep  up  their  spirits,  and 
hope  every  thing  would  turn  out  for  the  b-.-.st-  In 
about  two  hours  after,  as  they  were  sitting  at  break- 
fast, and  endeavouring  to  strike  out  some  plan  to 
obtain  my  liberty,  they  heard  a  loud  rap  at  the  door, 
•which  Lucy  running  to  open,  she  wet  the  bleeding 
body  of  her  brother,  borne  in  by  two  men,  who  bad 
lifted  him  from  a.  litter,  on  which  they  had  brought 
him  from-  the  place  where  he  fought.  Her  poor 
mother,  weakened  by  illness  and  the  struggles  oi" 
the  preceding  nicrht,  was  not  able  to  support  this 
shock;  gasping  for  her  breath,  her  looks  wild  and 
haggard,  she  reached  the  apartment  where  they 
had  carried  her  dying  son.  She  knelt  by  the  betl 
side  ;  anc*  taking  his  &M  hand, "  $  * 


she,  '*  I  will  not  be  parted  from  thee ;  husband ; 
son  !  both  at  once  lost.  Father  of  mercies,  spare 
i«e  !"  She  fell  into  a  strong  convulsion,  and  expired 
ia  about  two  hoars.  In  the  mean  time,  a  surgeon 
had  dressed  George's  wound  ;  but  they  were  in 
such  a  situation  as  to  bar  the  smallest  hopes  of  re- 
covery. He  never  was  sensible  from  the  time  he 
iv&s  brought  home,  and  died  that  evening  in  the 
amis  of  Lis  sister. 

**  Late  as  it  was  when  this  event  took  place,  my  af- 
fectionate Lucy  insisted  on  coming  to  me.  "  What 
must  he  feel,"  said  she,  "  at  our  apparent  neglect, 
how  shall  I  inform  him  of  the  afflictions  with  which 
it  has  pleased  heaven  to  visit  us  ?" 

"  She  left  the  care  of  the  dear  departed  ones  to 
some  neighbors,  who  had  kindly  come  in  to  comfort 
and  assist  her  ;  and  on  entering  the  house  where  I 
•was  confined,  found  me  in  the  situation  I  have  men- 
tioned. 

**  How  she  supported  herself  in  these  trying  mo- 
ments, I  know  no. ;  heaven,  no  doubt,  was1  with 
lier  ;  and  her  anxiety  to  preserve  the  life  of  one  pa- 
rent, in  some  measure  abated  her  alHiction  for  the 
loss  of  the  other.  ^ 

**  My  circumstances  were  greatly  embarrassed, 
my  acquaintance  tew,  and  tho^e  lew  utterly  unable 
to  assist,  me.  When  my  wife  and  son  were  com- 
mitted to  the  kindred  earth,  my  creditors  seized 
5D  y  house  and  furniture,  which  not  being  sufficient 
to  discharge  ail  their  demands,  detainers  were  lodg- 
ed against  me.  No  friend  stepped  forward  to  my 
relief-  From  the  grave  of  her  mother,  my  beloved 
Lucy  followed  an  almost  dying  father  to  this  melan- 
choly place. 

"  Here  we  have  been  nearly  a  year  and  a  half. — 

My  Si;  !-'  ;;;iy   I  have  given  up  to  satisfy  my  credit- 

;:;y  child  supports  me  by  her  industry — 

vMnetirocs  by  fine  needle-work,  sometimes  by  paint- 

She  leaves  me  every  night,  and  goes  to  a  lodg- 

ar  the  Dridge  ;  but  returns  in  the  morning,  to 

*r.e  with  her  smiles,  and  bless  me  by  her  du- 

:tidn .  A  itnly  once  offered  her  an  asylum  in 

•B 


t  u  3 

hey  family ,i)ut  she  would  not  leave  me.  "  We  are.  ail 
the  world  to  each  other,"  said  she  ;  **  I  thank  Go<39 
1  have  health  and  spirits  to  improve  the  talents  with, 
•which  nature  has  endowed  me  ;  and  I  trust  if  I  em- 
ploy them  in  the  support  of  a  beloved  parent, )  shall 
not  be  thought  an  unprofitable  servant.  While  he 
lives,  I  pray  tor  strength  to  pursue  my  employment^ 
and  when  it  pleases  heaven  to  take  one  of  us,  may  ft 
give  the  survivor  resignation  to  bear  the  separation? 
as  we  ought ;  till  then  1  will  never  leave  him." 

"  But  where  is  in  this  inhuman  persecutor  ?'  saicl 
Temple. 

<  He  has  been  abroad  ever  since,'  replied  the  old 
man  ;  *  but  he  has  left  orders  with  his  lawyer  never 
to  give  up  the  note  till  the  utmost  farthing  is  paid.'T 

*  And  how  much  is  the  amount  of  your  debt  in 
all  ?•  said  Temple. 

*  Five  hundred  pounds,' he  replied. 

Temple  started  ;  it  was  more  than  he  expected. 
*  But  something  must  be  dop.e,'  said  lie  ;  *  that  sweet 
ruaid  must  not  wear  out  her  life  in  a  prison.  I  will 
see  you  again  to  morrow,  my  friend/  said  he,  shak- 
ing Bldriclge's  hand  :  '  keep  up  your  spirits  :  light 
and  shade  are  not  more  happily  blended  than  are 
the  pleasures  and  pains  of  life  ;  and  the  horrors  of  the 
one  serve  only  to  increase  the  splendor  of  the  other," 

"  You  never  lost  a  wife  and  son,"  said  Eldridge. 

"  No,"  replied  he,  "  but  i  can  feel  for  those  that 
have."  Eldridge  pressed  his  hand  as  they  went  to- 
ward the  door,  and  they  parted  in  silence. 

When  they  got  without  the  vails  oftheprisonp 
Temple  thanked  his  friend  Blakeney  for  introducing 
him  to  so  worthy  a  character  :  and  telling  him  he 
had  a  particular  engagement  in  the  city,  wished  him 
a  good  evening. 

*  And  what  is  to  be  done  for  this  distressed  man  i* 
said  Temple,  as  he  walked  up  Ludgate  Hill  — 

*tWouhl  to  heaven!  had  a  fortune  that  would  ena- 
ble me  instantly  to  discharge  his  debt;  what  exquisite 
transport,  to  seethe  expressive  eyes  of  Lucy  beam- 
ing at  once  v-  ith  pleasure  for  her  father's  deliver- 
ance, and  gr;  Mule  for  her  deliverer  :  but  •  not 
my  fortme  afjfUtence/  cwttinaed  he  ," 


C  i*5 

QuS  wealth,  when  compared  to  the  extisc«ie  indi- 
gence of  Eldridge  ;  and  what  have  1  done  to  deserve 
ease  andplenty,  while  a  brave  worthy  officer  starves 
!ft  prison  :  Three  hundred  a  year  is  surely  sufficient 
ibr  all  my  wants  and  wishes  :  at  any  rate  Eldridge 
must  be  relieved." 

When  the  heart  has  will,  the  hands  can  soon  find 
means  to  execute  a  good  action. 

Temple  was  a  young  man,  his  feelings  warm  and 
impetuous  ;  unacquainted  with  the  world,  his  heart 
Iiad  not  been  rendered  callous  by  being  convinced 
of  its  fraud  and  hypocrisy.  He  pitied  their  sufferings, 
-overlooked  thejr  faults,  thought  every  bosom  as  ge- 
nerous as  his  own,  and  would  cheerfully  have  divided 
his  last  guinea  with  an  unfortunate  fellow  creature. 

No  wtmder  then  that  such  a  man  (without  wait- 
ing a  moment  for  the  interference  of  Madame  Pru- 
dence }  should  resolve  to  raise  money  sufficient  for  the 
relief  of  Eldridge,  by  mortgaging  part  of  his  fortune. 

We  will  not  enquire  top  minutely  into  the  cause- 
"which  might  actuate  him  in  this  instance  :  suffice  it 
to  say,  he  immediately  put  the  plan  in  execution  ; 
and.  in  three  days  from  the  time  he  first  saw  the  un  - 
fortunate  Lieutenant,  he  had  the  superlative  felicity 
of  seeing  him  at  liberty,  and  receiving  an  ample  re- 
ward in  the  tearful  eye  and  half  articulated  thanks 
of  the  grateful  Lucy. 

"  And  pray,  young  man,*'  said  his  father  to  him 
one  morning, **  what  are  your  designs  in  visitingthus 
constantly  that  old  man  and  his  daughter  ?"' 

Temple  was  at  a  loss  for  a  reply  :  he  had  never 
asked  himself  the  question ;  he  hesitated,  and  his 
father  continued 

"  It  was  not  till  within  these  few  days  that  I  heard 
in  what  manner  your  acquaintance  first  commenc- 
ed, and  cannot  suppose  any  thing  but  attachment 
to  the  daughter  could  carry  you  such  imprudent 
lengths  for  the  father  :  it  certainly  must  be  her  art 
that  drew  you  in  to  mortgage  part  of  your  fortune." 

"  Art,  Sir  !"  cried  Temple  eagerly.    "  Lucy  El 
firidge  is  as  free  from  art  as  she  >s  from  every  other 
$rror  :  she  is " 

f  fivery  t-hing  that  is  amiable  and  lovely,"  said  his, 


I  16. 3 

father,  interrupting  him  ironically  :  "  no  doubt  its 
your  opinion  she  is  a  pattern  of  excellence  for  rail 
her  sex  to  follow  ;  but  come,  Sir,  pray  tell  me  vrljat 
art-  your  designs  towards  this  paragon.  I  hope  yon  do 
not  intend  to  complete  your  folly  by  marrying  her,." 

4  Were  my  fortune  such  as  would  support  her  3  c- 
cording  to  her  merit,  I  do  not  know  a  woman  more 
formed  to  ensure  happiness  in  the  married  state..* 

1  Then  prithee  my  dear  lad,'  said  his  fat&uer, 
*  since  your  rank  and  fortune  are  so  much  benea.th 
•what  your  Princess  might  expect,  be  so  kind  as  to 
turn  your  eyes  to  Miss  Weatherby  ;  who  having 
only  an  estate  of  three  thousand  a  ye^ar,  is  more  i)  p~ 
on  a  level  with  you,  and  whose  father  yesterday  ;so- 
licitedthe  mighty  honour  of  your  alliance  I  shall 
leave  you  to  consider  on  this  offer  ;  and  pray  U'e 
member,  that  your  union  with  Miss  Weatherby  v/ili 
put  it  in  your  power  to  be  more  liberally  the  friend  I  of 
Lucy  Eldridge.' 

The  old  gentleman  walked  in  a  stately  manner  out 
of  the  room  ;  and  Temple  stood  almost  petrified, 
ivith  astonishment,  contempt  and  rage. 

CHAP.  V. 

SUCH  THINGS  ARE. 

MISS  WEATHERBY  was  the  only  child  of  a 
wealthy  man,  almost  idolized  by  her  parents,  flal.teih 
ed  by  her  dependants,  and  never  contradicted  «jvea, 
by  those  who  called  themselves  her  trends  :  I  ca  nnot 
give  a  better  description  than  by  the  following  !lines» 

The  lovely  maid,  whose  form  and  face 

Nature  Las  deckM  with  every  grace, 

But  in  whose  breast  no  virtues  glow, 

Whose  heart  ne'er  felt  another's  woe. 

Whose  hand  ne'er  smcoth'd  the  bed  of  pain, 

Or  eas'd  the  captive's  galling  chain  : 

But  like  the  tulip  caught  the  eye, 

Born  just  to  he  admired  and  die  ; 

\V  hen  gone,  no  one  regrets  its  ioss, 

Or  scarce  remembers  that  it  ^6s. 

Such  was  Miss  Weatherby  ;  her  form  lovely  as- 

nature  conld  make  it,  but  her  minji  uBCivltivated^hef 

heart  unfeeling,  her   passions   impetuous,  and  he? 

brain  almest  turned  with  flattery,  dissipation,  ami 


C  ir  ] 

pleasure;  and  such  was  the  girl  whom  a  partial 
grandfather  left  independent  mistress  of  the  fortune 
before  mentioned. 

She  had  seen  Temple  frequently  ;  and  fancying 
she  could  never  be  happy  without  him,  nor  once  im- 
agining he  could  refuse  a  girl  of  her  beauty  and  for- 
tune, she  prevailed  on  her  fond  lather  to 'offer  the 
alliance  to  the  old  Earl  of  D — ,  Mr.  Temple's  father. 

The  Earl  had  received  the  offer  courteously  :  he 
thought  it  a  great  match  for  Henry  ;  and  was  too 
fashionable  a  man  to  suppose  a  wife  could  be  any 
impediment  to  the  friendship  he  possessed  for  El- 
dridge  and  his  daughter. 

Unfortunately  for  Tempi?,  he  thought  quite  oth- 
erwise ;  the  conversation  he  had  just  hau  with  his 
father,  discovered  to  him  thu  situation  of  his  heart : 
and  he  found  that  the  most  affluent  fortune  would 
bring  no  increase  of  happiness  ur.less  Lucy  El- 
<lridg,e  shared  it  with  him  ;  and  the  knowledge  of 
the  purity  of  her  sentiments,  and  the  integrity  of 
his  own  heart,  made  him  shudder  at  the  idea,  his  fa- 
her  had  started,  of  marrying  a  woman  for  no  other 
Yeason  than  because  the  affluence  of  her  fortune 
"would  enable  him  to  injure  her  by  maintaining  in 
splendor  the  woman  to  whom  his  heart,  was  devo- 
ted; he  therefore  resolved  to  refuse  Miss  Weath- 
erby,  and  be  the  event  what  it  might,  offer  hiaJiear.t 
and.  hand  to  Lucy  Eklridge. 

Full  of  this  determination,  he  sought  his  father, 
declared  nis  resolution,  and  was  commanded  never 
more  to  appear  in  his  presence.  Temple  bowed  : 
bis  heart  was  too  full  to  permit  him  to  speak  :  he 
left  tjhe  house  precipitately,  and  hastened  to  relate 
the  cause  01  his  sorrows  to  his  good  old  friend  and 
liis  akUble  daughter. 

:V  mean  t;me,  the  Earl,  vexed  to  the  soul 
that  3\icii  a  fortune  should  be  losl,  determined  to 
offe»'  himself  a  candidate  for  Miss  W  ealherby's favor. 

What  wonderful  changes   are  wrought  by  th.a 
r,g  power,  ambition  !  the  love-sick  girl,  when 
first  ^ht1  heard  of  Temple's  refusal,wept,  raved,  tore 
her  tyair,  and  vowed  to  found  a  rn'otcstant  nur 


L  18  ] 

•with  her  fortune  ;  and  by  commencing  abbess,  sliut  J 
herself  up  from  the  sight  of  cruel  ungrateful  man 
forever. 

Her  father  was  a  man  of  the  world ;  he  suffered 
this  first  transport  to  subside,  and  then  very  delibe- 
rately unfolded  to  her  the  offers  of  the  old  Earl,  ex- 
patiated on  the  many  benefits  arising  from  an  eleva- 
ted title,  painted  in  showing  colors  the  surprise  and  I 
vexation  of  Temple  when  he   should  see  her  %u-« 
ring  as  a  Countess  and  hislmcther-in-law,  ard  begged! 
her  fo  consider  well  before  she  made  any  rash  vows*. 

The  distressed  fair  one  dried  her  tears,  listened  £ 
patiently,  and  at  length  declared  she  believed  th?  * 
surest  method  to  revenge  the  slight  put  upon  her  I  f 
the  son  would  be  to  accept  the  father ;  so  said,  so  dont  ,*> 
and  in  a  few  days  she  became  the  Countess  of  D — 

Temple  heard  the  news  with  emotion :  he  h<  *1 
lobt  his  father's  favor  by  avowing  his  passion  r  31' 
Lucy,  and  he  saw  now  there  was  no  hope  of  re^a-  n- 
ing  it  ;  *  but  he  shall  not  make  me  miserable,'  s;  ad 
Le;  *  Lucy  and  I  have  no  ambitious  notions  ;  we  c  an 
live  on  three  hundred  a  year  for  some  little  tii  re, 
till  the  mortgage  is  paid  off,  and  then  we  shall  h,  ive 
sufficient  not  only  for  the  comfort  but  many  of  the 
little  elegancies  of  life.  We  will  purchase  a  li  ttle 
-cottage,  my  Lucy>'  said  he,  *  and  thither  with  y  -our 
revered  father  we  will  retire  ;  we  will  forget  tl  urc 
are  such  things  as  splendor,  profusion,  and  dist  Spa- 
tion  ;  we  will  have  some  cows,  and  you  sha  11  be 
queen  of  the  dairy  ;  in  a  morning,  while  I  look  .  liter 
my  garden,  you  shall  take  a  basket  on  your  arm, 
and  sally  forth  to  feed  your  poultry  ;  and  as  they 
flutter  round  you  in  token  of  humble  grati  tude, 
your  father  shall  smoke  his  pipe  in  a  woocibi;  it  al- 
cove, and  viewing  the  serenity  of  vcur  counter  a  nee, 
feel  such  real  pleasure  dilate  his  own  heart,  as  shall 
make  him  forget  he  had  ever  been  unhappy. 

Lucy  smiled ;  and  Temple  saw  it  was  a  snr,  i!e  of 
approbation.  He  sought  and  found  a  cottage  .-  uiited 
to  his  taste :  thither,  attended  by  Love  and  Hy  'men, 
the  happy  trio  retired :  where  during  many  \  ears 
of  uninterrupted  felicity,  they  cast  not  a  wii-  h  be«* 
yoad  the  little  boundaries  of  their  own  tei;  saicnt 


[  3 

Plenty,  and  her  handmaid  Prudence,  presided  at 
their  board  ;  Hospitality  stood  at  their  gate  ;  Peace 
smiled  on  each  face  ;  Content  reigned  in  each  heart, 
and  Love  and  Health  strewed  roses  on  their  pillows. 
Snch  were  the  parents  of  Charlotte  Temple,  who 
was  the  only  pledge  of  their  mutual  love,  and  whrts 
at  the  earnest  entreaty  of  a  particular  friend,  was 
permitted  to  finish  the  education  her  mother  had 
begun,  at  Madame  Du  Font's  school,  where  we  first 
introduced  her  to  the  acquaintance  of  the  reader. 

CHAP.    VI.— AN  INTRIGUING  TEACHER. 

MADAME  Du  Pont  was  a  woman  every  way 
calculated  to  take  the  care  of  young  ladies,  had 
that  care  devolved  on  herself;  but  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  attend  the  education  of  a  numerous  school 
without  proper  assistants ;  and  those  assistants 
were  not  always  the  kind  of  people  whose  conver- 
sation and  morals  were  exactly  such  as  parents 
of  delicacy  and  refinement  would  wish  a  daughter 
to  copy.  Among  the  teachers  at  Madame  Da 
Font's  school,  was  Mademoiselle  La  Rue,  who  ad- 
fled  to  a  pleasing  person  and  insinuating  address,  a 
liberal  education  and  the  manners  of  a  gentlewo- 
man. She  was  recommended  to  the  school  by  a  la 
ily  whose  humanity  overstepped  the  bounds  of  dis- 
cretion ;  for  though  she  knew  Miss  La  Rue  had 
eloped  from  a  convent  with  a  young  officer,  and  on 
coming  to  England  had  lived  with  several  different 
men  in  open  defiance  of  all  moral  arid  religious  du- 
ties ;  yet  finding  her  reduced  to  the  most  abject 
want,  and  believing  the  penitence  v/hich  she  pro- 
fessed to  be  sincere,  she  took  her  into  her  own  lam 
ily,  and  from  thence  recommended  her  io  Madame 
Du  Pont,  as  thinking  the  sitimti;m  more  suitable  fov 
a  woman  of  her  abilities.  Bi:!  .iselie  pos- 

sessed too  much  of  the  spirit  of  intrigue  to  reami;: 
longj  without  adventures.  At  church,  where  she 
constantly  appeared,  her  person  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  a  young  man  who  was  upon  a  visit  at  a  gen- 
tleman's seat  in  the  neighbourhood  ;  she  had  met 
him  several  times  clandestinely ;  and  being  invited 
to  come  out  that  evening,  and  cat  some  fruit  and 
pastry  in  a  sum.mer-hcuse  betegmg  tv  the  gentk- 


[  20] 

roan  be  was  \isiiing,  and  requested  to  bring  sou 
the  ladies  with  her,  Charlotte,  being  her  favorite, 
was  fixed  on  to  accompany  her- 

The  mind  of  youth  eagerly  catches  at  promised 
pleasure ;  .pure  and  innocent  by  nature,  it  thinks 
not  of  the  dangers  lurking  beneath  those  pleasures, 
till  too  late  to  avoid  them  ;  when  Mademoiselle  ask- 
ed Charlotte  to  go  with  her,  she  mentioned  the 
gentleman  as  a  relation,  and  spoke  in  such  high 
terms  of  the  elegance  of.  his  gardens,  the  sprightli- 
ness  of  his  conversation,  and  the  liberality  with 
•which  he  ever  entertained  his  guests,  that  Charlotte 
thought  only  of  the  pleasure  she  would  enjoy  in  the 
visit, — not  on  the  imprudence  of  going  without 
her  governess' knowledge,  or  of  the  danger  to  which 
she  exposed  herself  in  visiting  the  house  of  a  gay 
young  man  of  fashion, 

Madame  Du  Pont  was  gone  out  for  the  evening,, 
and  the  rest  of  the  ladies  retired  to  rest,  when  Char- 
lotte and  the  teacher  stole  out  at  the  back  gate,  and 
in  crossing  the  field,  were  accosted  by  Montraville, 
as  mentioned  in  the  first  chapter. 

Charlotte  was  disappointed  in  the  pleasure  she) 
had  promised  herself  from  this  visit.  The  levity, 
of  the  gentlemen  and  the  freedom  of  their  corner- 
station  disgusted  her.  She  was  astonished  at  the 
liberties  Mademoiselle  permitted  them  to  take  ;— - 
grew  thoughtful  and  uneasy,  and  heartily  wished 
herself  at  home  again  in  her  own  chamber. 

Perhaps  one  cause  ot  that  wish  might  be,  an 
earnest  desire  to  see  the  contents  of  the  letter  which 
had  been  put  into  her  hand  by  Montraville* 

Any  reader  who  has  the  least  knowledge  of  the 
world,  will  easily  imagine  the  letter  was  made  up  of 
encomiums  on  the  beauty,  and  vows  of  eve rl ;  sting 
love  and  constancy ;  nor  will  he  be  surprised  that  a 
heart  open  to  every  gentle,  generous  sentiment 
should  feel  itself  warmed  by  gratitude  for  a  man  ->  ho 
professed  to  teel  so  much  for  her.  Nor  is  it  impro- 
bable but  her  mind  might  revert  to  the  agreeable 
person  and, martial  appearance  of  Montraville. 
In  affairs  of  love,  a  young  heart  is  never  in  more 
er  U\au  >vhen  attempted  by  a  hancUgjiie  y 01155, 


soldier.  A  man  of  an  indifferent  appearance,  will, 
when  arrayed  in  military  habit,  shew  to  advantage  ; 
but  when  beauty  of  person,  elegance  of  manners, 
and  an  easy  method  of  paying  compliments,  arc 
United  to  the  scarlet  coat,  .sfnurt  cockade,  and  mil- 
itary sash,  ah !  weli-a-day  for  a  poor  girl  who  ga- 
zes on  him  ;  she  is  in  imminent  danger  ;  but  if  she 
listens  to  him  with  pleasure,  Vis  all  over  with  hei\ 
and  from  that  moment  she  has  neither  eyes  nor 
ears  for  any  other  object 

Now,  my  dear  sober  matron,  (if  a  sober  matron 
should  deign  to  turn  over  these  pages,  before  she 
trusts  them  to  the  eye  of  a  darling  daughter)  let 
me  entreat  you  not  to  put  on  a  grave  face,  and 
throw  down  the  book  in  a  passion  and  declare  'tis 
enough  to  turn  the  heads  of  half  the  girls  in  Eng- 
land ;  I  do  solemnly  protest,  my  dear  madam,  I 
Tmean  no  more  by  what  I  have  here  advanced,  than 
to  ridicule  those  romantic  girls  who  foolishly  ima- 
gine a  red  coat  and  silver  epaulette  constitute  the 
iine  gentleman :  and  should  that  fine  gentleman 
make  half  a  dozen  fine  speeches  to  them,  they  will 
imagine  themselves  so  much  in  love  as  to  fancy  it  a 
meritorious  action  to  jump  out  of  a  two  pair  of  stairs 
•windoV,  abandon  their  friends,  arid  trust  entirely  to 
the  honour  of  a  man,  who,  perhaps,  hardly  knows 
the  meaning  of  the  word,  and  if  he  does,  will  be  too 
tttuch  the  modern  man  of  refinement,  to  practice  it 
in  their  favor. 

Gracious  heaven !  when  I  think  on  the  miseries 
that  must  rend  the  hf  art  of  a  doating  parent,  when 
he  sees  the  darling  of  his  age  at  first  seduced  from 
his  protection,  and  afterwards  abandoned,  by  the 
very  wretch  whose  promises  of  love  decoyed  her 
from  her  paternal  root—when  he  sees  her  poor  and 
•wretched,  her  bosom  torn  between  remorse  for  her 
crime  and  love  for  her  vile  betrayer  —  when  fancy 
paints  to  me  the  good  old  man  stooping  to  raise  the 
wrentng  penitent,  while  every  tear  from  her  eye  is 
numbered  by  drops'trom  his  bleeding  hr-art,  my  bo- 
som glows  with  honest  irr-li^riiti:  ;i,  ar.d  I  wish  foi* 
power  to  extirpate  1 1:  era  cf  seduction  from 

the  earth. 


[  22  ] 

Oh  my  dear  girls,  for  to  such  only  am  I  writing:, 
listen  not  to  the  voice  of  love,  unless  sanctioned  by 
paternal  approbation  ;  be  assured  it  IH  now  past  the 
clays  of  romance  ;  no  woman  can  be  run  away  with 
contrary  to  her  own  inclination  ;  then  kneel  down 
each  morning,  and  request  kind  heaven  to  keep  you 
free  from  temptation,  or,  should  it  please  to  buffer 
you  to  be  tried,  pray  for  fortitude  to  resist  the  im- 
pulse of  inclination  when  it  runs  counter  to  the  pre- 
cepts of  religion  and  virtue, 

CHAP~VII. 

NATURAL    SENSE  OF  PROPRIETY  INHERENT   IN 
THE  FEMALE  BOSOM 

'  I  CANNOT  think  we  have  done  exactly  right 
in  going  out  this  evening  Mademoiselle,'  said  Char- 
lotte,seatingherself  when  sheentered  her  apartment, 
*  nay,  I  am  sure  it  was  not  right  ;  for  I  expected  to 
be  very  happy,  but  was  sadly  disappointed.' 

*  It  was  your  own  fault,  then,'  replied  Mademoi- 
selle, '  for  I  am  sure  my  cousin  omitted  nothing  that 
could  serve  to  render  the  evening  agreeable.' 

*  True, '  said  Charlotte,  '  but  J  thought  the  gen- 
tlemen were  very  free  in  their  manner ;  1  wonder 
you  could  suffer  them  to  behave  as  they  did/ 

4  Prithee  do  not  be  such  a  foolish  little  prude/ 
said  the  artful  woman,  affecting  anger  ;  '  I  invited 
you  to  go  in  hopes  it  would  divert  you,  and  be  an 
agreeable  change  cf  scene  ;  however,  if  ydur  deli- 
cacy was  hurt  by  the  behaviour  of  the  gentlcmens 
you  need  not  go  again  ;  so  there  let  it  rest.' 

4  I  do  not  intend  to  go  again/  said  Charlotte, 
gravely  taking  off  her  bonnet,  and  beginning  to  pre- 
pare for  bed  :  '  I  am  sure,  if  Madame  Du  Pont 
knew  we  had  been  out  to  r.i^ht,  she  would  be  very 
angry  ;  and  it  is  ten  to  one*but  she  hears  of  it,  by 
some  means  or  other.' 

*  Nay,  Miss/  said  La  Uue, '  perhaps  your  wiighty 
sense  of  propriety  may  lead  you  to  tell  her  yourself  ; 
and  in  order  to  avoid  the  censure  you  would  incur, 
should  she  hear  of  it  by  accident,  {hrow  llu*  blame 
on  me  :  But  I  confess  I  deserve  it ;   it  will  be  a  very 
kind  return  for  that  parUality  wUich  led  me  to  pre- 


t  23  ] 

fer  you  before  any  of  the  rest  of  the  ladies ;  but  per- 
haps it  will  give  you  pleasure,'  continued  she,  letting 
fall  some  hypocritical  tears, '  to  see  me  deprived  of 
bread,  and  for  an  action  which  by  the  most  rigid 
could  only  be  esteemed  an  inadvertency,  lose  my 
place  and  character,  and  be  turned  again  into  the 
world,  where  I  have  already  suffered  all  the  evils 
attendant  on  poverty.' 

This  was  touching  Charlotte  in  the  most  vulnera- 
ble part ;  she  rose  from  her  seat,  and  taking  Made- 
moiselle's hand— *  You  know,  my  dear  La  Rue,5  said 
she,  *  I  love  you  too  well  to  do  any  thing  that  would 
injure  you  in  my  governess'  opinion  ;  I  am  only  sor- 
ry we  went  out  this  evening ' 

4 1  do  not  believe  it,  Charlotte,'  said  she,  assum- 
ing a  little  vivacity  ;  *  for  if  you  had  not  gone  out 
you  would  not  have  seen  the  gentleman  who  met  us 
crossing  the  tield  ;  1  rather  think  you  was  pleased 
•with  his  conversation.' 

'  I  had  seen  him  once  before,'  replied  Charlotte, 
8  and  thought  him  an  agreeable  man  ;  and  you 
know  one  is  always  pleased  to  see  a  person  with 
•whom  one  has  passed  several  cheerful  hours.  But, 
said  she,  pausing,  and  drawing  the  letter  from  her 
pocket,  while  a  gentle  suffusion  of  vermiliion  ting- 
ed her  neck  and  face,  *  he  gave  me  this  letter  ; 
•\phat  shall  i  do  with  it  ?' 

*  Read  it,  to  be  sure,'  returned  Mademoiselte. 

'  I  am  afraid  I  ought  not,'  said  Charlotte ;  *  my 
mother  has  often  told  me,  I  should  never  read  a  letter 
given  me  by  a  young  man,  without  first  v^ving  it  to  her.' 

*  Lord  bless  you  my  dear  girl,'  erica  the  teacher 
smiling,  *  have  you  a  mind  to  be  in  leading  strings  all 
your  lite  time  ?  Prithee,  open  the  letter,  read  it,  and 
judge  for  yourself;  if  you  show  it  your  mother  the 
consequence  will  be,  you  will  be  taken  from  school, 
and  a  strict  guard  kept  over  you ;  so  you  will  stand  no 
chance  of  ever  seeing  the  smart  young  officer  again.' 

*  I  should  not  like  to  leave  school  yet,'  replied 
Charlotte, '  until  \  have  attained  a  greater  proficiency 
m  my  Italian  and  music.    But  you  can,  if  you  please, 
Marlemoiselle,  take  the  letter  back  to  Montraville, 
and  tell  him  I  wish  Jiim.  ^vejl,  by  t  ^Kinet,  with  any 


[24] 

propriety,  enter  into  a  clandestine  correspondence 
with  him.'  She  laid  the  letter  on  a  table,  and  began 
to  undress  herself. 

*  Well,'  said  La  Rue,  •  I  vow  you  arc  an  unaccoun- 
table girl ;  have  you  no  curiosity  to  see  the  inside 
DOW  ?   For  my  part  I  could  no  more  let  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  rne  lie  unopened  so  long,  than  I  could 
•work  miracles.    He  -writes  a  good  hand,'  continued 
she,  turning  the  letter  to  look 'at  the  superscription. 

*  *Tis  well  enough/  said  Charlotte,  drawing  it  to- 
•Wards  her. 

4  He  is  a  genteel  young  fellow,'  said  La  Rue  car£  • 
Icssly,  folding  up  her* apron  at  the  same  time,  *  but 
I  think  he  is  marked  with  the  small-pox.* 

*  Oh  you  are  greatly  mistaken,'  said  Charlotte 
eagerly  ;  '  he  has  a  remarkable  clear  skin  and  fine 
complexion.' 

*  His  eyes,  if  I  could  judge  by  what  I  saw,'  said 
La  Rue,  •  are  grey  and  want  expression.' 

'j'By  no  means,'  replied  Charlotte ;  '  they  are  the 
most  expressive  eyes  I  ever  saw.* 

*  Well,  child  whether  they  are  grey  or  black  is  of 
no  consequence  ;  you  have  determined  not  to  read 
his  letter  ;  so  it  is  likely  you  will  never  either  see 
or  hear  from  him  again.' 

4  Charlotte  took  up  the  letter,  and  Mademoiselle. 
..continued — 

*  He  is  most  probably  going  to  America  ;  and  if 
ever  you  should  hear  any  account  of  him,  it  may 
be  that  he  is  killed  ;  and  though  he  loved  you  ever 
so  fervently,  though  his  last  breath  be  spent  in  a 
prayer  for  your  happiness,  it  can  be  nothing  to  you  ; 
you'can  feel  nothing  for  the  fate  of  a  man,  whose  let- 
ters you  will  not  open,  and  whose  sufferings  you  will 
not  alleviate,  by  permitting  him  to  think  you  would 
remember  him  when  absent,  and  pray  for  his  safety/ 

Charlotte  still  field  the  letter  in  her  hand ;  her  heart 
swelled  at  the  conclusion  of  Mademoiselle's  speech* 
and  a  tear  drc  pped  upon  the  wafer  that  closed  it. 

'  The  wafer  is  not  dry  yet,'  said  she,  *  and  sure 
there  can  be  no  great  harm' — she  hesitated — La 
Rue  was  silent ,  '  I  may  read  it,  Mademoiselle,  and 
return  jit  after  wards,* 


f  25  ] 

'  Certainly'  replied  Mademoiselle, 
*  At  any  rate,  I  am  determined  not  to  answer  it  ' 
Continued  Charlotte,  as  she  opened  the  letter. 

Here  let  me  stop  to  make  one  remark,  and  trust 
i$e  my  very  heart  aches  while  I  write  it  ;  but  cer- 
tain I  am,  that  when  once  a  woman  has  stifled  the 
sense  of  shame  in  her  own  bosom,  when  once  she 
has  lost  sight  of  that  basis  on  which  reputation- 
honor—  eveiy  thing  that  should  be  dear  to  the  fe- 
male heart,  rests  ;  she  grows  hardened  in  tniilt, 
and  will  spare  no  pains  to  bring  down  innocence 
and  beauty  to  the  shocking  level  with  herself  ;  and 
this  proceeds  from  that  diabolical  spirit  of  envy, 
which  repines  at  seeing  another  in  the  full  posses- 
sion of  that  respect  and  esteem  which  she  can  no 
longer  hope  to  enjoy, 

Mademoiselle  eyed  the  unsuspecting  Charlotte, 
as  she  pursued  the  letter,  with  a  malignant  pleas- 
ure. ^  She  savy  that  the  contents  had  awakened  new 
emotions  in  her  youthful  bosom  :  she  encouraged 
her  hopes,  calmed  her  fears,  and  before  they  parted 
lor  the  night,  it  was  determined  that  she  should 
meet  Montraville  the  ensuing  evening. 


v}7Sl-r"DOMESTIC  PLEASURES  PLANNED. 

1  1MLNK,  my  dear,'  said  Mrs.  Temple,  layinir 
lier  hand  on  her  husband's  arm  as  they  were  walk- 
ing together  in  the  garden,  *  1  think  next  Wednes- 
day is  Charlotte's  birth  day  ;  now  I  have  formed 
a  little  scheme  in  my  mind  to  give  her  an  agreea 
Die  surprise  ;  and  if  you  have  no  objection  we  will 
send  for  her  home  on  that  day.'  Temple  pressed 
his  wife  s  hand  in  token  of  approbation,  and  she 
proceeded—4  You  know  the  little  alcove  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  garden  of  which  Charlotte  is  so  fohdu  I 
nave  an  inclination  to  deck  this  out  in  a  fanciful 
manner,  and  invite  all  her  little  friends  to  partake 
ot  a  coilation  of  fruit,  sweetmeats,  and  other  thines 
suitable  to  the  general  taste  of  young  guests  :  and 
to  make  it  more  pleasing  to  Charlotte,  she  shall  be 
Distress  of  the  feast,  and  entertain  her  visitors  in 
"MS  alcove,  J  know  she  will  be  delighted  ;  and  u* 

V* 


[  26  ] 

all,  they  shall  have  some  music,  and  fin- 
ish with  a  dance.' 

4  A  very  fine  plan  indeed/  said  Temple,  smiling:, 
"  and  you  really  suppose  I  will  wink  at  your  indulg- 
ing the  girl  in  this  manner  ?  you  will  quite  spoil 
her  Lucy  ;  indeed  you  will.' 

<  She  is  the  only  child  we  have,'  said  Mrs.  Tem- 
ple, the  whole  tenderness  of  a  mother  adding  ani- 
mation to  her  fine  countenance  ;  but  it  was  withal 
tempered  so  sweetly  with  the  meek  affection  and 
submissive  duty  of  the  wife,  that  as  she  paused  ex- 
pecting her  husband's  answer,  he  gazed  at  her  ten? 
derly,  and  found  he  was  unable  to  re  1  use  her  re- 
quest, 

*  She  is  a  good  girl,'  said  Temple. 

*  She  is  indeed,'  replied  the  fond  mother  exulting*- 
ly, '  a  grateful,  affectionate  girl  ;  and  I  am  sure  will 
never  lose  sight  of  the  duty  she  owes  her  parents.' 

*  If  she  does,'  said  he,  *  she  mtfst  forget  the  exam- 
ple set  her  by  the  best  of  mothers ' 

Mrs.  Temple  made  no  reply  ;  but  the  delightful 
sensation  that  dilated  her  heart  sparkled  in  her  in 
telligent  eyes,  and  heightened  the  vermillion  of  her 
cheeks. 

Of  all  the  pleasures  of  which  the  human  mind  i? 
sensible,  there  is  none  equal  to  that  which  warms 
and  expands  the  bosom*  when  listening  to  the  com- 
mendations bestowed  on  us  by  a  beloved  object,  and 
are  conscious  ot  having  deserved  them. 

Ye  giddy  flatterers  in  the  fantastic  round  of  dis 
sipation,  who  eagerly  seek  pleasure  in  the  lofty 
dome,  rich  retreat  and  midnight  revel — tell  me,  ye 
thoughtless  daughters  of  folly,  have  ye  ever  found 
the  phantom  you  have  so  long  sought  with  such  un- 
remitting assiduity  ?  Has  she  not  always  eluded 
your  grasp  ;  and  when  you  have  reached  your  hand 
to  take  the  cup  she  extends  to  her  deluded  votaries, 
have  you  not  found  the  long  expected  draught 
strongly  tinctured  with  the  bitter  dregs  of  disap- 
pointment? I  know  you  have;  1  see  in  the  wan 
cheek,  sunk  eye,  and  air  of  chagrin,  which  ever 
mark  the  children  of  dissipation.  Pleasure  isja  vain 
Elusion ;  she  draws  you  on  to  a  thousand 


[  2M 

errors,  and  I  may  say  vices,  and  then  leaves  you  to 
deplore  your  thoughtless  credulity. 

Look,  ray  clear  friends,  at  yonder  lovely  Virgin 
arrayed  in  a  white  robe  devoid  of  ornament  ;  behold 
the  meekness  of  her  countenance,  the  modesty  of  her 
gait ;  her  handmaids  are  Humility,  Filial  Piety., 
Conjugal  Affection,  Industry,  and  Bene-vvkncc  j  her 
name  is  Content  ;  she  holds  in  her  hand  the  cup  of 
true  felicity,  and  when  you  have  formed  an  ac- 
quaintance with  these  her  attendants,  you  must 
admit  them  as  your  bosom  friends  and  chief  coun- 
sellors ;  then,  whatever  may  be  your  situation  in 
life,  the  meek-eyed  Virgin  will  immediately  take 
up  her  abode  with  you. 

Is  poverty  your  portion  ?  she  will  lighten  your 
labours,  preside  at  your  frugal  board,  and  watch  youi* 
quiet  slumbers. 

Is  your  state  mediocrity  ?— she  will  heighten  ev- 
ery blessing  you  enjoy,  by  informing  you  how  grate- 
ful you  should  be  to  that  bountiful  Providence  who 
might  have  placed  you  in  the  most  abject  situation  ; 
and  by  teaching  you  to  weigh  your  blessings  against 
your  deserts,  tUow  you  how  much  more  you  receive 
than  you  have  a  right  to  expect. 

Are  you  possessed  of  affluence?  what  an  inexhaust? 
Ible  fund  of  happiness  wilb she  lay  before  you?  To 
relieve  the  distressed,  redress  the  injured,  in  short, 
to  perform  all  the  good  works  of  peace  and  mercy. 

Cogent,  my  dear  friends,  will  blunt  even  the  ar 
rows  of  adversity,  so  that  they  cannot  materially 
harm  you.  She 'will  dwell  in  the  humble  cottage  ; 
she  will  attend  you  even  to  a  prison.  Her  parent  is 
]U:)<;-ion;  her  sisters  are  Patience  and  Hope.  She 
v "ill  pass  with  youj-hronghlife  ;  smoothing  the  rough 
paths  and  tread  to  earth  those  thorns  which  every 
one  must  meet  with  as  they  journey  onward  to  the 
appointed  goal.  She  will  soften  the  pains  of  sick- 
nesrs  continue  with  you  even  in  the  cold  gloomy  hour 
of  death,  and,  cheering  you  with  the  smiles  of  her 
••M-born  sister,  Hope,  lead  you  triumphant  to  a 
b!;s'  tnl  eternity. 

I  r.ontess   I  have   rambled    from   my   Ftory  :  but 
of  that  ?  If  1  have  been  so  lucky  as  to  £; 


[  28] 

road  to  happiness  why  should  I  be  such  a  niggard 
as  to  omit  so  good,  an  opportunity  of  pointing,out  the 
way  to  others  ?  The  very  basis  of  true  peace  of  mind 
is  a  benevolent  \vish  to  see  all  the  world  as  happy 
as  one's  self ;  and  from  my  soul  do  I  pity  the  selfish 
churl,  who  remembering  the  little  bickerings  of  an- 
ger,envy,  and  fifty  other  disagreeables  to  which  frail 
mortality  is  subject,  would  wish  to  revenge  the  affront 
\vhich  pride  whispers  him  he  has  received  For  my 
own  part,  I  can  safely  declare,  there  is  not  a  human 
being  in  the  universe,  whose  prosperity  I  should  not 
rejoice  in,  and  to  whose  happiness  I  would  not  con- 
tribute to  the  utmost  limit  of  my  power  :  and  may 
my  offences  be  no  more  remembered  in  the  day 
of  general  retribution,  than  as  from  my  soul  I  forgive 
every  offence  or  injury  received  from  a  fellow 
creature. 

Merciful  heaven  !  who  would  exchange  the  rap- 
ture of  such  a  reflection  for  all  the  gaudy  tinsel  which 
the  worlds  calls  pleasure. 

But  to  return —Content  dwelt  in  Mrs.  Temple's 
bosom,  and  spread  a  charming  animation  over  her 
countenance,  as  her  husband  led  her  in,  to  lay  the 
plan  she  had  formed  ( for  the  celebration  of  Char 
lotte's  birth  day,)  before  Mr.  Eldridge. 

CHAP"  ix. 

"WE  KNOW  NOT  WHAT  A  DAY  MAY  BRING  FORTH. 

VARIOUS  were  the  sensations  which  agitated 
the  mind  of  Charlotte,  during  the  day  preceding  thr 
evening  in  which  she  was  to  meet  Montraville,  Seve- 
ral times  did  she  almost  resolve  to  go  to  her  gover- 
ness, show  her  letter  and  be  guided  by  her  advice  : 
but  Charlotte  had  taken  one  step  in  the  way  of  im- 
prudence :  and  when  that  is  once  done,  there  are  al- 
ways innumerable  obstacles  to  prevent  the  erring 
person  returning  to  the  path  of  rectitude  :  yet  those; 
obstacles,  however  forcible  they  may  appear  in  gene- 
ral, exist  chiefly  in  the  imagination. 

Charlotte  feared  the  anger  of  her  governess  :  she 
loved  her  mother,  and  the  very  idea  of  incurring  her 
displeasure,  gave /her  the  greatest  uneasiness  ;  but 
there  was  a  mofe  forcible  reason  still  remaining 


[  29] 

should  she  show  the  letter  to  Madame  Du  Pont, 
she  must  confess  the  means  by  which  it  came  into 
her  possession :  and  what  would  \jg  the  conse- 
quence ?  Mademoiselle  would  be  turned  out  of  doors. 

*  I  must  not  be  ungrateful,'  said  she  ;  *  La  Rue  is 
very  kind  to  me  ;  besides  I  can,  when  I  see  Mon- 
traville,  inform  him  of  the  impropriety  of  our  con- 
tinuing to  see  or  correspond  with  each  other,  and  re- 
quest him  to  come  no  more  to  Chichester.' 

However  prudent  Charlotte  might  be  in  these  re- 
solutions, she  certainly  did  not  take  a  proper  method 
to  confirm  herself  in  them,  Several  times  in  the 
course  of  the  day  she  indulged  herself  in  reading 
over  the  letter,  and  each  time  she  read  it  the  con- 
tents sunk  deeper  into  her  heart.  As  evening  drew 
near,  she,  caught  herself  frequently  consulting 
her  watch-  '  I  wish  this  foolish  meeting  was  over/ 
said  she,  by  way  of  apology  to  her  own  heart, '  I  wish 
it  was  over:  for  when  I  have  seen  him,  and  convinc- 
ed him  my  resolution  is  not  to  be  shaken,  I  shall 
feel  my  mind  much  easier.' 

The  appointed  hour  arrived-  Charlotte  and 
Mademoiselle  eluded  the  eye  of  vigilance  ;  and 
Montraville  who  had  waitecUheir  coming  with  im- 
patience, received  them  with  rapturous  and  un- 
bounded acknowledgments  for  their  condescension : 
he  had  wisely  brought  Belcour  with  him  to  entertain 
Mademoiselle,  while  he  enjoyed  an  uninterrupted 
conversation  with  Charlotte- 

Belcour  was  a  man  whose  character  might  be 
comprised  in  a  few  words  :  and  as  he  will  make 
some  figure  in  the  ensuing  pages,  I  shall  here  De- 
scribe him.  He  possessed  a  genteel  fortune,  and 
had  a  liberal  education  :  dissipated,  thoughtless,  awd 
capricious,  he  paid  little  regard  to  moral  duties,  and 
less  to  religious  ones ;  eager  in  the  pursuit  of  plea- 
sure,!^ minded  not  the  misserieshe  inflicted  on  oth- 
ers, provided  his  own  wishes,  however  extravagant, 
were  gratified.  Self,  darling  self,  was  the  idol  he 
worshipped,  and  to  that  he  would  have  sacrificed 
the  interest  and  happiness  of  all  mankind.  Such 
was  the  friend  of  Montraville,  will  not  the  reader. 
C  2 


[30] 

i  imagine,  that  the  man  who  could  regard 
r:uch  a  character,  must  be  actuated  by  the  same  feel- 
ings, follow  the  same  pursuits,  and  be  equally  un- 
worthy with  the  person  to  whom  he  thus  gave  his 
confidence  ; 

But  M ontraville  was  a  different  character  ;  gene- 

ous  in  his  disposition,  liberal  in  his  opinions,  and 
good  natured  almost  to  a  fault ;  yet  eager  and  im- 
petuous in  the  pursuit  of  a  favorite  object,  he  stakl 
not  to  reflect  on  the  consequence  which  might  fol- 
low the  attainment  of  his  wishes  ;  with  a  mind  ever 
open  to  conviction,  had  he  been  so  fortunate  as  to 
possess  a  friend  who  would  have  pointed  out  th$ 
cruelty  df  endeavoring  to  gain  the  heart  of  an  inno- 
cent artless  girl,  when  he  knew  it  was  utterly  im- 
possibly for  him  to  marry  her,  and  when  the  grati- 
fication of  his  passion  would  be  unavoidable  infamy 
and  misery  to  her,  and  a  cause  of  never-ceasing  re- 
morse to  himself :  had  these  dreadful  consequences 
been  placed  before  him  in  a  proper  light,  the  hu- 
manity of  his  nature  would  have  urged  him  to  give 
up  the  pursuit :  Belcour  was  not  this  friend  :  he 
rather  encouraged  the  growing  passion  of  Montra- 
x'ille  ;  and  being  pleased  with  the  vivacity  of  Made- 
moiselle, resolved  to  leave  no  argument  untried, 
•which  he  thought  might  prevail  on  her  to  be  the 
companion  of  their  intended  voyage :  and  he  made  no 
doubt  but  her  example,  added  to  the  rhetoric  of  Mon- 
traville,  would  persuade  Charlotte  to  go  with  them. 

Charlotte  h^d,  when  she  went  out  to  meet  Mon- 
traville,  flattered  herself  that  her  resolution  was  not 
to  be  shaken,  and  that,  conscious  of  the  improprie 
ty  of  her  conduct  in  having  a  clandestine  inter- 
course with  a  stranger,  she  would  never  repeat  the 
indiscretion. 

But  alas  !  poor  Charlotte,  she  knew  not  the  de- 
ceitf ulness  of  her  own  heart,  or  she  would  have  a- 
voided  the  trial  of  her  stability. 

Montraville  was  tender,  eloquent,  ardent,  and  yet. 
respectful.  «  Shall  ;  not  see  your  once  more,'  said 
be, '  before  I  leave  England  ?  will  you  not  bless  me 
by  an  assurance,  that  when  we  are  divided  by  a  vas'* 
expanse  of  sea,  I  shall  not  be  forgotten  f 


[  31  j 
Charlotte  sighed. 

*  Why  that  sigh,  my  dear  Charlotte  ?  could  I 

:er  myself  that  a  fear  for  my  safety,  or  a  wish  for  my 
welfare  occasioned  it,  how  happy  would  it  make  me/ 
'  I  shall  ever  wish  you  well,  Montraville,'  said 
•slie  ;  *  but  we  must  meet  no  more.' 

*  O  say  not   so,  my  lovely  girl :  reflect  that  when 
I  leave  my  native  land,  pevhaps  a  few  short  weeks 
may  terminate    my  existence  ;  the  perils  of  the 
ocean — the  danger  of  war — ' 

'  I  can  hear  no  more,'  said  Charlotte  in  a  tremuf 
lous  voice,  *  (  must  leave  you,' 
<  Say  you  will  see  me  once  again.' 

*  I  dare  not,'  said  she. 

*  Only  for  one  half  hour  to-morrow  evening  ;  it 
is  my  last  request,  I  shall  never  trouble  you  again 
Charlotte.' 

*  I  know  not  what  to  say,'  cried  Charlotte,  strug- 
gling to  draw  her  hands  from  him ;  *  let  me  leave 
vou  now.* 

'  And  will  you  come  to-morrow  ?'  said  Montraville: 

*  Perhaps  I  may, 'said  she- 

*  Adieu  them,  I  will  live  upon  that  hope  till  we 
,meet  again.1 

He  kissed  her  hand.  She  sighed  an^adieu,  and 
catching  hold  of  Mademoiselle's  arm,  hasily  enter- 
ed the  garden  gate. 

CHAP,  X. 

WHEN  WE  HAVE  EXCITED  CURIOSITY,  IT  IS  BUT 
AN  ACT   OF  GOOD  NATURE  TO  GRATIFY  IT. 

MONTRAVILLE  was  the  youngest  son  of  a 
gentleman  of  fortune,  whose  family  being  numerous* 
he  was  obliged  to  bring  up  his  sons  to  genteel  profes- 
sions, by  the  exercise  of  ^vhich  they  might  hope  to 
raise  themselves  into  notice. 

*  My  daughters,'  said  he,  '  have  been  educated 
like  gentlewomen  ;  and  should  1  die  before  they  arc 
settled,  they  must  have  some  provision  made,  to 
place  them  above  the  snares  and  temptations  which 
vice  ever  holds  out  to  the  elegant,  accomplished  fe- 
male, when  oppressed  by  the  frowns  of  poverty  and 
the  sting  of  dependence  ;  my  boys,  with  only  mode- 

;  income^  wljea  plage^  in  the  church,  at  th£  bar*. 


C  32  1 

or  in  the  field,  may  exert  their  talents,  make  them- 
selves friends,  and  raise  their  fortunes  on  the  basis 
of  merit/ 

When  Montravillc  chose  the  profession  of  arms 
his  father  presented  him  with  a  commission,  and 
inade  him  a  handsome  provision  for  his  private 
pur.se.  '  New  my  hoy,  go  seek  glory  in  the  field  of 
battle.  You  have  received  from  me  all  I  shall  ever 
have  it  in  my  power  to  bestow  ;  it  is  certain  I  have 
interest  to  gain  you  promotion,  but  be  assured  that 
interest  shall  never  be  exerted,  unless  by  your  fu- 
ture conduct  you  deserve  it.  Remember,  therefore, 
your  success  in  life  depends  entirely  on  yourself. 
There  is  one  thing  1  think  it  my  duty  to  caution  you 
against  ;  the  precipitancy  with  which  young  men 
frequently  rush  into  matrimonial  engagements,  and 
by  their  thoughtlessness  draw  many  a  deserving 
•woman  into  scenes  of  poverty  and  distress.  A  sol- 
dier has  no  business  to  think  of  a  wife  till  his  rank 
is  such  as  to  place  him  above  the  fear  of  bringing 
into  the  world  a  train  of  helpless  innocents,  heirs 
only  to  penury  and  affliction-  If,  indeed,  a  woman 
•whose  fortune  is  sufficient  to  preserve  you  in  that 
state  of  independence,  I  would  teach  you  to  prize, 
should  generously  bestow  herself  on  a  young  sol- 
dier, whose  chief  hope  of  future  prosperity  depend- 
ed  f>n  his  success  in  the  field— -if  such  a  woman 
should  ofFer-*-every  barrier  is  removed,  and  I  should 
rejoice  in  an  union  which  would  promise  so  much  fe- 
licity. But  mark  me,  boy  if,  on  the  contrary,  you 
rusii  into  a  precipitate  union  with  a  girl  of  little  or 
no  fortune,  take  the  poor  creature  from  a  comforta- 
ble home  and  kind  friends,  arid  plunge  her  into  all 
the  evils  a  narrow  income  and  increasing  family  can 
inflict,  I  will  leave  you  to  enjoy  the  blessed  fruits  of 
your  rashness ;  for  by  all  that  is  sacred,  neither  my 
interest  nor  fortune  shall  ever  be  exerted  in  your  fa- 
vor. I  am  serious,'  continued  he,  *  therefore  im- 
print this  conversation  en  your  memory,  and  let  it 
influence  your  future  conduct  Your  happiness  will 
always  be  ch>ar  to  me  ;  and  I  wish  to  warn  you  of  a 
rock  on  which  the  peace  of  many  an  honest  fellow 
lias  been  wrecked  ;  for  believe  me?  the  difficulties 


[  S3] 

and  dangers  of  the  longest  winter  campaign  are 
much  easier  to  be  born,  than  the  pangs  that  would 
seize  your  heart,  when  you  behold  the  woman  of 
your  choice,  the  children  of  your  affection,  involved 
in  penury  and  distress,  and  reflect  that  your  own 
folly  and  precipitancy  had  been  the  prime  cause  of 
their  sufferings.' 

As  this  conversation  passed  but  a  few  hours  be- 
fore Montraville  took  leave  of  his  father,  it  was 
deeply  impressed  on  his  mind  :  when,  therefore, 
Belcour  came  with  him  to  the  place  of  assignation 
-with  Charlotte,  he  directed  him  to  enquire  of  the 
French  woman  what  were  Miss  Temple's  expecta- 
tions in  regard  to  fortune. 

Mademoiselle  informed  him,  that  though  Char- 
lotte's father  possessed  a  genteel  independence,  it 
was  by  no  means  probably  chat  he  could  give  his 
daughter  more  than  a  thousand  pounds ;  andin  case 
.she  did  not  marry  to  his  liking,  it  was  possible  he 
might  not  give  her  a  single  sous  ;  nor  did  it  appear 
the  least  likely,  that  Mr.  Temple  would  agree  to  her 
union  with  a  young  man  on  the  point  of  embarking; 
for  the  seat  of  war. 

Montraville  therefore  concluded  it  was  impossv~ 
ble  he  should  ever  marry  Charlotte  Temple  ;  and. 
•what  end  he  proposed  to  himself  by  continuing  the 
acquaintence  he  had  commenced  with  her,  he  did 
r.ot  at  that  moment  give  himself  time  to  enquire- 

CHAP.    XL — CONFLICT    OF    LOVE    AND   DUTY. 

ALMOST  a  week  was  now  gone,  and  Charlotte 
continued  every  evening  to  meet  Montraville,  at;d  in 
her  heart  every  meeting  was  resolved  to  be  the  last  ^ 
but  alas  !  when  Montraville  at  parting  would  earnest- 
ly intreat  one  more  interview,  that  treacherous  heart 
betrayed  her  :  and,  forgetful  of  its  resolution,  pltad- 
ed  the  cause  af  the  enemy  so  powerfully,  that  Char- 
jotte  was  unable  to  resist.  Another  and  another 
meeting  succeded  ;  and  so  well  did  Montraville  im- 
prove each  opportunity,  that  the  heedless  girl  af 
length  confessed  that  no  idea  could  be  so  painful  tfc 
her  as  that  of  never  seeing  him  again. 

*  Then  we  will  never  be  parted,'  sai4  he> 


[  34-  1 

"  Ah,  Montraville,*  replied  Charlotte,  forcing  a 
smile,  *  how  can  it  be  avoided  ?  My  parents  would 
ibever  consent  to  our  union  ;  and  even  could  they  be 
brought  to  approve  of  it,  how  could  I  bear  to  be  se- 
parated from  my  kind,  my  beloved  mother?* 

*  Then  you  love  your  parents  more  than  you  do 
me,  Charlotte  ?J 

'  I  hope  I  do,'  said  she,  blushing  and  looking  down 
*  I  hope  my  affection  for  them  will  ever  keep  me 
from  infringing  the  laws  of  filial  duty.' 

4  Well  Charlotte,'  said  Montraville  gravely,  and 
letting  go  her  hand, '  since  this  is  the  case,  I  find  I 
liave  deceived  myself  with  fallacious  hopes.  I  had 
flattered  my  fond  Heart  that  1  was  dearer  to  Char- 
lotte than  any  thing  in  the  world  besides  I  thought 
that  you  would  for  my  sake  have  braved  the  dan- 
gers of  the  ocean,  that  you  would,  by  your  affection 
and  smiles,  have  softened  the  hardships  of  war,  and, 
liad  it  been  my  fate  to  fall,  that  your  tenderness 
•would  cheer  the  hour  of  death,  and  smooth  my  pas- 
sage to  another  world.  But  farewell,  Charlotte  !  I 
see  you  never  loved  me.  I  shall  now  welcome  the 
friendly  ball  that  deprives  me  of  the  sense  of  my 
misery.' 

*  O  stay,  unkind  Montraville,'  cried  she,  catching 
Ihold  of  his  arm  as  he  pretended  to  leave  her.  *  stay, 
land  to  cairn  your  fears,  I  will  here  protest  that  were 
it  not  for  the  fear  of  giving  pain  to  the  best  of  pa- 
Tents,  and  returning  their  kindm'sswith  ingratitude,! 
•would  follow  you  through  every  danger,  and,  in  stu- 
dying to  promote  your  happiness,  insure   my   own. 
But  I  cannot  break  my  mother's  heart,  Montraville; 
1  must  not  bring  the  grey  hairs  of  my  .doating  grand- 
father with  sorrow  to  the  grave,  or  make  my  belov- 
ed father,     erhaps,  curse  the  hour  that  gave  me 
birth.'    She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
burst  into  tears. 

*  All  there  distressing  scenes,  my  dear  Charlotte, 
cried  Montraville,  *  are  merely  the  chimeras  of  a 
disturbed  fancy.      Your  parents    might,    perhaps, 
grieve  at  first,  but  when  they  heard  from  your  .own 
jiand  that  you  was  with  a  man  of  honor,  and  that  it 
•was  to  ensure  your  felicity  by  a  union  with  him,  to 


C  35  ] 

s&hich  you  feared'they  would  never  have  given  thej? 
scssent,  that  you  left  their  protection,  they  will,  be 
assured,  forgive  an  error  which  love  alone  accasion**- 
ed,  and  when  we  return  from  Americaj  receive  yoyf 
with)  pen  arms  arid  tears  of  joy.' 

Belcour  <nd  Mademoiselle  heard  this  last  speech 
and  conceiving  it  a  proper  time  to  throw  in  their  ad* 
vjce  and  persuasions,  approached  Charlotte,  so  well 
seconded  the  entreaties  of  Montraville,  that  finding 
Mademoiselle  intended  going  with  Belcour,  and  feel- 
iBg  her  own  treacherous  heart  too  much  inclined  to 
accompany  them,  the  hapless  Charlotte  in  an  evil 
hour  consented  that  the  next  evejiing  they  should 
fering  a  chaise  to  the  end  of  the  townt  and  that  slue* 
"would  leave  her  friends,  and  throw  herself  entirely 
on  the  protection  of  Montravillc.  *  But  should  you,* 
said  she,  looking  earnestly  at  him,  her  eyes  full  o£ 
tears,  '  should  you,  forgetful  of  your  promises,  and 
I'epenting  the  engagements  you  here  voluntarily  en- 
er  into,  forsake  and  leave  me  on  a  foreign  shore  •  * 
"  Judge  not  so  meanly  of  me,'  said  he.  *  The 
moment  we  reach  the  place  of  our  destination,  Hy •- 
men  shall  sanctify  our  love  ;  ancl  when  I  shall  forge£ 
your  goodness,  may  heaven  forget  me-3 

*  Ah,'  said  Charlotte,  leaning  on  Mademoiselle's 
.arm  as  they  walked  up  the  garden  together,  '  t 
have  forgot  all  that  I  ought  to  have  remembered,  in 
consenting  to  this  intended  elopement' 

'  You  are  a  strange  girl,'  said  Mademoiselle  ;— * 
you  never  know  your  own  mind  two  minutes  at  a 
time.  Just  now  you  declared  Montrav  ille's  happi- 
ness was  what  yo'u  prized  most  in  the  world  ;  and, 
now  I  suppose  you  repent  having  insured  that  hap-? 
piness  by  agreeing  to  accompany  him  abroad.' 

*  Indeed  1  do  repent,'  replied  Charlotte, 4  from 
my  soul ;   but  \vhilt:  discretion  points  out  the  impro-* 
priety  of  my  conduct,  inclination  urges  me  on  to  ruin  * 

Ruin  J  fiddlestick  P  said  Mademoiselle  ;  am  not 
I  going  with  you  ?  and  do  I  feel  any  of  these  qualms  # 

*  You  do  not  renounce  a  tender  fathe^ and  mother/ 
said  Charlotte. 

*  Sue  I  hazard  my  dear  reQSJft&K] \' .replied  MjJ- 
ftdfe  brdiin,  ' 


C  36] 

4  True,*  replied  Charlotte,  '  but  you  dp  not  feel 
what  I  do.  She  then  bade  her  good  night ;  but 
sleep  was  a  stranger  to  her  eyes,  and  the  tear  of 
anguish  watered  her  pillow. 

CHApTxiI. 

Nature's  last,  best  gift  ; 
Creature  in  whom  excell'd  :  whatever  could 
To  sight  or  thought  be  nam'd ! 
Holy,  divine,  good,  amiable  and  svreet! 
How  thou  art  fallen  I    • 

WHEN  Charlotte  left  her  restless  bed,  her  Ian- 
d  eve  and  pale  cheek  discovered  to  Madame  Dti 
Font  the  little  repose  she  had  tasted. 

4  My  dear  child,'  said  the  affectionate  governess, 
*  what  is  the  cause  of  the  languor  so  apparent  in 
your  frame  ?  are  you  not  well,' 

*  Yes,  my  dear  Madame,  very  well,'replied  Char- 
lotte, attempting  to  smile,'  '  but  I  know  not  how  it 
was      could  not  sleep  last  night,  and  my  spirits 

,  are  depressed  this  morning.* 

*  Come  cheer  up  my  love,'  said  the  governess,  "I 
believe  I  have  brought  a  cordial  to  revive  them.    I 
have  just  received  a  letter  from  your  good  mama 
and  here  is  one  for  yourself.' 

Charlotte  hastily  took  the  letter ;  it  contained 
these  words : 

*  As  to-morrow  is  the  anniversary  of  the  happy 
day  that  gave  my  beloved  girt  to  the  anxious  wishes 
of  a  maternal  heart,  I  hu~uc  requested  your  governess 
to  let  you  come  home  and  spend  it  with  us  ;  and  as  I 
know  you  to  be  a  good  affectionate  child^  and  make  it 
your  study  to  improve  in  those  branches  of  education 
'Which  you  know  will  give  most  pleasure  to  your  de- 
Ughtcd  parents,  as  a  reward  for  ysur  diligence  and 
attention :,  I  have  prepared  an  agreeable  surprize  for 
you*  reception-     Your  grand-father*  eager  to  em-* 
bract  the  darling  of  his  aged  heart,  will  come  in  the 
chaise  for  you  ;  so  hold  your  self  in  readiness  to  attend 
him  by  nine  o'clock.     Your  dear  father  joins  in  every 
tender  wish  for  your  health  and  future  felicity*  which 
mvarms  tk§  hwt  of  my  Charlotte's  affectionate  mo 

a  -***%..-  L. 

ars  your  felicity  L 


[  37  ] 

*  Gracious  heaven  !'  cried  Charlotte,  forgetting 
where  she  was,  and  raising  her  streaming  eyes  as  in 
earnest  supplication. 

Madame  Du  Pont  was  surprised.  *  Why  these9 
tears  my  love  ?'  said  she.  *  Why  this  seeming  agi- 
tation ?  I  thought  the  letter  would  have  rejoiced 
instead  of  distressing  you.' 

*  It  does  rejoice  me,'   replied  Charlotte,  endea- 
vouring at  composure,  *  but  I  was  praying  for  merit 
to  deserve  the  unremitted  attention  of  the  best  of 
parents.' 

You  do  right,'  said  Madame  Du  Pont,  *  to  ask 
the  assistance  of  heaven  that  you  may  continue  to 
deserve  their  love.  Continue,  my  dear  Charlotte, 
in  the  course  you  have  ever  pursued,  and  you  will 
insure  at  once  their  happiness  and  your  own  ' 

4  Oh  !'  cried  Charlotte,  as  her  governess  left  her, 
*1  have  forfeited  both  forever  !  Yet  let  me  reflect ; 
the  irrevocable  step  is  not^yet  taken  ;  it  is  not  too 
late  to  recede  from  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  from 
which  1  can  only  behold  the  dark  abyss  of  ruin, 
shame,  and  remorse  !' 

She  arose  from  her  seat  and  ftew  to  the  apartment 
of  La  Rue.  *  Oh  Mademoiselle !  said  she,  '  I  am 
snatched  by  a  miracle  from  destruction  !  This  let- 
ter has  saved  me  ;  it  has  opened  my  eyes  to  the 
folly  I  was  so  near  committing.  I  will  not  go,  Ma- 
demoiselle ;  I  will  not  wound  the  hearts  of  those 
dear  parents  who  make  my  happiness  the  whole 
study  of  their  lives.' 

*  Well,'   said  Mademoiselle,  *  do  as  you  please, 
Miss  ;  but  pray  understand  that   my  resolution  is 
taken, andthat  it  is  not  in  your  power  to  alter  it.  I  shall 
meet  the  gentlemen  at  the  appointed  hour,  and  shall 
not  be  surprised  at  uny  outrage  which  Montraville 
may  commit,  when  he  finds  himself  disappointed. 
Indeed,  I  should  not  be  astonished  was  he  to  come 
invmed lately  here,  and  reproach  you  for  your  in- 
stability ^  in  the  hearing  of  the  whole  school :  and 
what  will  be  the  consequence  ?  you  will  bear  the 
odium  of  having  formed  the  resolution  ot  eloping, 
ancl  eyery  girl  of  spirit  will  laugh  at  yovst  want  of 


[rvQ    -4 
00     J  ^ 

fortitude  to  put  it  into  execution,  while  prudes  and 
fools  will  load  you  with  reproach  and  contempt. 
You  will  have  lost  the  confidence  of  your  parents, 
incurred  their  anger,  and  the  scoffs  of  the  world. 
And  what  fruit  do  you  expect  to  reap  from  this  piece 
of  heroism  ?  <  for  such  no  doubt  you  thisik  it  is)  you 
will  have  the  pleasure  to  reflect,  that  you  have  de- 
ceived the  man  who  adores  you,  and  whom  in  your 
heart  you  prefer  to  all  other  men,  and  that  you  are 
separated  from  him  forever.' 

This  eloquent  harangue  was  given  with  such  vo- 
lubility, that  Charlotte  could  not  find  an  opportuni- 
ty to  interrupt  her,  or  to  offer  a  single  word  till  the 
•whole  was  finished,  and  then  found  her  ideas  so 
confused  that  she  knew  not  what  to  say. 

At  length  she  determined  that  she  would  go  with 
Mademoiselle  to  the  place  of  assignation,  convince 
Montraville  of  the  necessity  of  adhering  to  the  re- 
solution of  remaining  behind,  assure  him  of  her  af- 
fection, and  bid  him  adieu. 

Charlotte  formed  this  plan  in  her  mind,  and  ex- 
ulted in  the  certainty  of  its  success.  *  How  shall  I 
rejoice/  said  she,  *  in  this  triumph  of  reason  over 
inclination,  and  when  in  the  arms  of  my  affectionate 
parents,  lift  up  my  soul  in  gratitude  to  heaven  as  I 
look  back  on  the  dangers  I  have  escaped  !' 

The  hour  of  assignation  arrived  :  Mademoiselle 
put  what  money  and  valuables  she  possessed  in  her 
pocket,  and  advised  Charlotte  to  do  the  same,  but 
she  refused  ;  *  my  resolution  is  fixed,'  said  she  ;  *  I 
•will  sacrifice  love  to  duty.' 

Mademoiselle  smiled  internally  ;  and  they  pro- 
ceeded softly  down  the  back  stairs,  and  out  of  the 
garden  gate  Montraville  and  Belcour  were  ready 
to  receive  them. 

'  Now/  said  Montraville,  taking  Charlotte  in  hfe 
ar.i>s,  -  you  are  mine  forever.' 

*  No,' said  she,  withdrawing  from  his  embrace^ 
*  I  am  come  to  take  an  everlasting  farewell.' 

It  we /hi  be  useless  to  repeat  the  conversation 
ilia:  tu- -e  ensued  ;  suffice  it  to  say,  that  Montra- 
ville used  every  argument  that  had  formerly  been 
$}ccessi'ul.  Charlotte's  resolution  began  to  waver,- 


[  39] 

and  he  drew  her  almost  imperceptibly  towards  the 
chaise. 

*  I  cannot  go,'  said  she  ;  'cease,  dear  Montraville, 
to  persuade.    J  must  not  ;  religion,  duty,  forbid. 

*  Cruel '  Charlotte.,  said  he,  *  if  you  disappoint  my 
ardent  hopes,  by  all  that  is  sacred,  this  hand  sh  all 
put  a  period  to  my  existence.    1  cannot  will    not 
live  without  you.' 

*  Alas  !  my  torn  heart !'  said  Charlotte,    '  ho>? 
shall  I  act  ?' 

*  Let  me  direct  you,'  said  Montr aville,  lifting  her 
Into  the  chaise. 

*  Oh !   my  dear  forsaken  parents !'  cried  Char- 
lotte. 

The  chaise  drove  off.  She  shrieked,  and  fainted 
into  the  arms  of  her  betrayer. 

CHAPTXIII. 

CRUEL  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

'WHAT  pleasure  ''  cried  Mr.  Eldridge,  as  ha 
stepped  into  the  chaise  to  go  for  his  grand-daughter, 
4  what  pleasure  expands  the  heart  of  an  oldL 
man  when  he  beholds  the  progeny  of  a  beloved 
child,  growing-  up  in  every  virtue  that  adorned  the 
minds  of  her  parents.  1  foolishly  thought,  some 
few  years  since,  that  every  sense  of  joy  was  buried 
in  the  graves  of  niy  dear  partner  and  my  son  ;  but 
my  Lucy,  by  her  filial  affection,  soothed  my  soul  to 
peace,  and  this  dt-.ar  Charlotte  has  twined  herself 
round  my  heart,  and  opened  such  new  scenes  of  de- 
light to  my  view,  that  I  almost  forget  I  have  ever 
beers  unhappy.1 

When  the  chaise  stopped  he  alighted  with  the  ala- 
crity of  youth :  so  much  do  the  emotions  of  the  soul 
influence  the  body. 

It  WHS  half  past  eight  o'clock  ;  the  ladies  were  as- 
v»rr.bted  in  the  school  room,  and  Madame  Du  Pont 
:  -eparing  to  "ffer  the  rooming  sacrifice  of  pray- 
er and  praise,  when  it  was  discovered,  thut  Made- 
moiselle and  Charlotte  were  missing. 

*  She  is  busy,  no  doubt,   said  the  governess,  *  in 
preparing   Charlotte  for  her  little  excursion  ;  but 

sure  shall  never  make  us  forget  our  duty  to  our 


^ 

Creator.    Go,  one  of  you,  and  bid  them  both  attend 
prayers.* 

The  lady  who  went  to  summon  them,  soon  return- 
ed, and  informed  the  governess  that  the  room  was 
locked,  and  that  she  hud  knocked  repeatedly,  but 
obtained  no  answer. 

*  Good  heaven !'  cried  Madame  Du  Pdnt — '  this 
is  very  strange  ;'  and  turning  pale  with  terror,  she 
•went  hastily  to  the  door  and  ordered  it  to  b  forced 
open.  The  apartment  instantly  discovered  that  no 
person  had  been  in  it  the  preceding  night,  the  beds 
appearing  as  though  just  made.  The  house  was  in- 
stantly a  scene  of  confusion  ;  the  garden,  the  plea 
sure  grounds,  were  searched  to  no  purpose — every 
apartir.eat  rung  with  the  name  of  Miss  Temple  and 
Mademoiselle ;  but  they  were  too  distant  to  hear  ; 
and  every  iaee  wore  the  marks  of  disappointment. 

Mr.  Eldridge  was  sitting-  in  the  parlour,  eagerly 
expecting  his  grand-daughter  to  descend,  ready 
equipped  for  her  journey ;  he  heard  the  confusion 
that  reigned  in  the  house :  he  heard  the  name  of 
Charlotte  frequently  repeated  *  What  can  be  the 
matter  ?'  said  he  rising  and  opening  the  door ;  I  fear 
£ome  accident  has  befallen  my  dear  girl.* 

The  governess  entered.  The  visible  agitation  of 
her  countenance  discovered  that  something  *extra- 
ordinary  had  happened 

*  Where  is  Charlotte?1  said  he.    *  Why  does  not 
my  child  come  to  -welcome  her  doating  parent  ?' 

*  Be  composed,  my  dear  sir,'  said  Madame  Du 
Pont,  *  do  not  frighten  yourself  unnecessarily. — She 
is  not  in  the  house  at  present ;  but  as  Madamoisdle 
is  undoubtedly  with  her,  she  will  speedily  return  in 
safety;  and  1  hope  they  w  ill  both  bes  able  to  account 
for  this  unseasonable  absence  in  such  a  manner  au 
shall  remove  our  present  uneasiness.' 

*  Madam/  cried  the  old  man,  with  an  angry  look, 
*  has  my  child  been  accustomed  to  go  out  without 
leave,  with.no  other  company  or  protector  than  that 
.French  woman  ?  Pardon  me,  Madam,  I  mean  no  re- 
flection on  your  country,  but  I  never  did  like  Mada- 
moiselle  La  Rue  ;  I  think  she  was  a  very  improper 
person  to  be  entrusted  with  the  care  of  such  a  girl  :ia. 


[  41  ] 

Charlotte  Temp]£,  or  to  be  suffered  to  take  her  from 
under  your  immediate  protection.' 

*  You  wrong  me,  Mr.  Eidridge,'  said  she,  *  if  you 
suppose  I  have  ever  permitted  your  grand-daughter 
to  go  out  unless  with  the  other  ladies,  i  would  to 
heaven  I  could  form  any  probable  conjecture  con- 
cerning her  absence  this  morning,  but  it  is  a  mys- 
tery which  her  return  alone  can  unravel.' 

Servants  were  now  dispatched  to  every  place 
where  there  was  the  least  hope  of  hearing  any  ti- 
dings £f  the  fugitives,  but  in  vain  Dreadful  were 
the  hours  of  horrid  suspense  which  Mr.  Eldridge 
passed  till  twelve  o'clock,  when  that  suspence  was 
reduced  to  a  shocking  certainty,  and  every  spark  of 
hope  which  till  then  they  had  indulged,  was  in  a 
moment  extinguished. 

Mr.  Eldridge  was  preparing,  with  a  heavy  heart 
to  return  to  his  anxiously-expecting  children,  when 
Madame  Du  Pont  received  the  following  note  With 
out  either  name  or  date. 

'  Mks  Temple  is.  well,  and  wishes  to  relieve  the 
anxiety  of  her  fiarents,  by  letting  them  know  tliat 
she  has  voluntarily  fiut  herself  under  the  protection 
of  a  $ian  whose  future  study  shall  be  to  make  her 
hafifiy,  Pursuit  is  needless  :  the  measures  taken  to 
avoid  disco-very  are  too  effectual  to  be  eluded.  When 
she  thinks  her  friends  are  reconciled  to  this  firecijii-* 
tate.  stefi%  they  maij^fierhafis,  be  informed  ofherjdace 
of  residence^  Mademoiselle  is  with  her-' 

As  Madame  Du  Pont  read  these  cruel  lines,  she 
turned  pale  as  ashes,  her  limbs  trembled,  i»nd  she 
was  forced  to  call  for  a  glass  of  water.  She  loved 
Charlotte  truly  ;  and  when  she  reflected  on  the  in- 
nocence and  gentleness  of  her  disposition,  she  con- 
cluded that  it  must  have  been  the  advice  and  machi- 
nations of  La  Rue  which  led  her  to  this  imprudent 
action  ;  she  recollected  her  agitation  at  the  receipt 
of  her  mother's  letter,  and  saw  in  it  the  conflict  of 
her  mind. 

4  Does  that  letter  relate  to  Charlotte  ?'  said  Mr, 
Eldridge,  having  waited  some  time  in  e#pe.ctatioiVQf 
Madame  Do  Pqnt's  sneaking, 
D  2 


t  42  J 

c  It  does,5  said  she,  '  Charlotte  is  well,  but  can- 
.not  return  to  day.' 

4  J^ot  return,  Madam  !  where  is  she  ?  who  will 
detain  her  from  her  fond  expecting  parents  ? 

'  You  distract  me  with  these  questions,  Mr  EI- 
dridge.  Indeed  I  know  not  where  she  is,  or  who  has 
seduced  her  from  her  duty. 

The  whole  truth  now  rushed  at  once  upon  Mr. 
Eldridge's  mind.  *  She  has  eloped  then,'  said  he, 
*  my  child  is  betrayed  ;  the  darling,  the  comfort  of 
my  aged  heart  is  lost.  O  would  to  heaven  1  had 
died  but  yesterday.' 

A  violent  gush  of  grief  in  some  measure  relieved 
liim,  and,  after  several  vain  attempts,  he  at  length 
assumed  sufficient  composure  to  read  the  note. 

*  And  how  shall  1  return  to  my  children  ?'  said  he  ; 
4  how  approach  that  mansion,  so  late  the  habitation 
of  peace?  Alas  !  my  dear  Lucy,  how  v.-ill  you  sup- 
port these  heart  rending  tidings?  or  how  shall  }  be 
enabled  to  console  you,  who  need  so  much  consola- 
tion myself?' 

The  old  man  returned  to  the  chaise,  but  the  light 
step  and  cheerful  countenance  -were  no  more  :  sor- 
row filled  his  heart,  and  guided  his  motion*:  he 
seated  himself  in  the  chaise :  his  venerable  head  re- 
clined upon  his  bosom,  his  hands  were  folded,  his 
eye  fixed  on  vacancy,  and  the  large  drops  of  sorrow 
rolled  silently  down  his  cheeks.  There  was  a  mix- 
ture of  anguish  and  resignation  depicted  in  his  coun- 
tenance, as  if  he  would  say,  henceforth  who  shall 
dare  to  boast  his  happiness,  or  even  in  idea  contem- 
plate his  treasure,  lest,  in  the  very  moment  his  heart 
is  exulting  in  its  own  felicity,  the  object  which  con- 
sfitutes  that  felicity  should  be  torn  from  him. 

CHApTxiV. 

MATERNAL    SORROW. 

SLOW  and  heavy  passed 'the  time  while  the  car- 
riage was  conveying  Mr.  Eldridge  home  ;  and  yet 
-when  he  arrived  in  sight  of  the  house,  he  wished  a 
longer  reprieve  from  the  dreadful  task  of  informing: 
Mr,  and  Mrs.  Temple  of  their  daughter's  elopement 

!t  is  easy  to  judge  the  anxiety  of  these  affect  iona*rs 


[  43  3 

parents,  when  they  found  the  return  of  their  father 
delayed  so  much  beyoisd  the  expected  time.  They 
were  now  met  in  the  dining  parlour,  and  several  oi 
the  young  people  who  had  been  invited  were  already 
arrived  '  Each  different  part  of  the  company  was 
employed  in  the  same  manner,  looking  out  at  the 
windows  vhich  faced  the  road.  At  length  the  long 
expected  chaise  appeared.  Mrs-  Temple  ran  out 
to  'receive  and  welcome  her  darling  ;  her  young 
companions  flocked  round  the  door,  each  one  eager 
to  give  her  joy  on  the  return  of  her  birth-day.  The 
door  of  the  chaise  was  opened  ;  Charlote  was  not 
there.  *  Where  is  my  child?'  cried  Mrs. Temple, 
in  breathless  agitation. 

Mr.  Eld  ridge  could  not  answer  :  he  took  hold  of 
his  daughter's  hand  ai;d  led  her  into  the  house  :  and 
sinking' into  the  first  chair  he  come  to,  burst  into 
tears,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

'  She  is  dead',  cried  Mrs.  Temple.  *  Oh  my  dear 
Charlotte!'  and  clasping  her  hands  in  an  agony  of 
distress,  fell  into  strong  hysterics 

Mr  Temple  who  had  stood  speechless  with  sur- 
prize and  fear,  now  ventured  to  enquire  if  .indeed 
his  Charlotte  was  no  more.  Mr.  Kldridge  led  him 
into  another  apartment :  and  putting ;  the  fatal  note 
into  his  hand,  cried  —  *  Bear  it  like  a  Christian,'  and 
turned  from  him,  endeavouring  to  suppress  his  own 
too  visible  emotions. 

It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  describing  what  Mr. 
Temple  felt  whilst  he  hastily  ran  over  the  dreadful 
lines  ;  when  lie  had  finished,  the  paper  dropped 
from  his  unnerved  hand.  *  Gracious  heaven  !'  said 
he,  4  could  Charlotte  act  thus?1 — ]S either  tear  nor 
fii.^h  escaped  him  ;  and  he  sat  the  image  of  mute 
sorrow,  t-11  roused  from  his  stupor  by  the  repeated 
shrieks  of  Mrs.  Temple.  He  rose  hastily,  and 
rusjiing  into  the  apartment  where  she  way,  folded 
his  arms  about  her  saying, — '  Let  us  be  patient,  my 
dear  Lucy  ;'  nature  relieved  his  almost  bursting 
heart  by  a  friendly  gush  of  tears- 
Should  any  one  presuming  on  his  own  philosophic 
'emper,  look  with  an  eye  of  contempt  on  the  man 
v/ho  could  indulge  a  woman's  weakness,  let 


[44] 

that  man  u  as  a  father,  and  he  will  then 
pity  the  misery  which  rung  those  drops  from  a 
noble,  generous  heart. 

Mrs  Temple  beginning  to  be  a  little  more  com- 
posed, but  still  imagining  her  child  was  dead,  her 
hiusbahd  gently  took  her  hand,  cried — *  You  are 
mistaken  my  love.  Charlotte  is  not  dead.' 

'  Then  she  is  very  ill,  else  why  did  she  not  come  ? 
But  I  will  go  to  her  :  the  chaise  is  still  at  the  door : 
let  me  go  instantly  to  the  dear  girl.  If  I  was  ill 
she  would  fly  to  attend  me,  to  alleviate  my  sufferings, 
and  cheer  me  with  her  love.' 

*  Be  calm,  my  dearest  Lucy,  and  I  will  tell  you 
all,' said  Mr  Temple.     *  You  must  not  g">,  indeed 
you  must  not :  it  will  be  of  no  use.' 

*  Temple,'  said  she,  assuming  a  look  of  firmness 
and  composure,  *  tell  me  the  truth  I  beseech  you. 
1  cannot  bear  this  dreadful  suspense.     What   mis- 
fortune has  befallen  my  child  ?  Let  me  know  the 
\vorst  and  I  will  endeavour  to  bear  it  as  i  ought.' 

*  Lucy,'    replied   Mr*    Temple,    *  Imagine  your 
daughter  alive,  and  in  no  danger  of  death  :   what 
lUtstbrtune  would  you  then  dread  ?' 

*  There  is  one  misfortune  which  is  worse  than 
death,     Hut  I  know  my  child  too  well  to  suspect — ' 

'  Be  not  too  confident,  Lucy.'  - 
'  Oh  heavens  !'  said  she, '  what  horrid  images  do 
you  start:  is  it  possible  she  should  forget — ?' 

*  Sfce  has  forgotten  us  all,  my  love:   she  has  pre- 
ferred the  love  of  a  stranger  to  the  affectionate 
protection  of  her  friends.' 

*  Not  eloped !'  cried  she  eagerly. 
Mr.  Temple  was  silent. 

*  You  cannot  contradict  it,'  said  she?   *  I   see  my 
fate  in  those  tearful  eyes.   Oh  Charlotte  !  Charlotte ! 
liow  ill  have  you  requited  our  tenderness!  But,  Fa- 
ther of  Mercies,'    continued   she,  sinking  on  her 
knees,  and  raising  her  streaming  eyes  and  clasped 
} lands  to  heaven,  *  this  once  vouchsafe  to  hear  a 
fond,  a  distracted  mother's  prayer.     Oh  let  thy 
bounteous  Providence  watch  over  and  protect  the 
dear  thoughtless  girl,  save  her  from  the  miseries 
v;high  I  fear  v/ill  be  her  portion,  an3  oh  !  of  tliin 


[45] 

nake  IK 


infinite  mercy,  make  her  not  a  mothex*,  lest  sfye 
should  one  clay  feel  what  1  now  suffer.* 

The  last  words  faultered  on  her  tongue,  and  she 
fell  fainting  into  the  anus  of  her  husband,  who  had 
involuntarily  dropped  on  his  knees  by  her  side. 

A  mother's  anguish,  when  disappointed  in  her 
iendcrest  hopes,  none  but  a  mother  can  conceive  — 
Vet,  my  young;  readers,  J  "would  have  you  read  thi* 
scene  with  attention,  and  reflect  that  you  may  your- 
selves one  day  be  mothers.  Oh  my  friends,  as  you 
value  your  eternal  happiness,  wound  not,  by  thought- 
less ingratitude,  the  peace  of  the  mother  who  bore 
you:  remember  the  tenderness,  the  care,  the  unre- 
mitting anxiety  with  which  she  has  attended  to  all 
your  wants  and  wishes  from  earliest  infancy  to  the 
present  day  ;  behold  the  mild  ray  of  affectionate  ap- 
plause that  beams  from  her  eye  on  the  performance 
of  your  duty  ;  listen  to  her  reproofs  with  silent 
attention  :  they  proceed  from  a  heart  anxious  for 
your  future  felicity :  you  must  love  her  ;,  nature, 
all*f).owerfui  nature,  has  planted  the  seeds'  of  filial 
affection  in  your  besoms. 

Then  unce  more  read  over  the  sorrows  of  poor 
Mr.i.  Temple,  and  remember  the  mother  whom  you 
so  dearly  love  arid  venerate  will  feel  the  same,  when 
you,  forgetful  of  the  respect  due  to  your  maker  and 
yourself,  forsake  the  paths  of  virtue  for  tho^e  of  vice 

and  folly.  

CHAP.  XV. 

EMBARKATION. 

IT  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  the  united 
efforts  of  Mademoiselle  and  Montraville  could 
support  Charlotte's  spirits  during  their  short  rielc 
iron:  Chichcbu:r  to  Portsmouth,  where  a  boat  waited 
to  take  them  immediately  on  board  the  ship  in 
which  they  were  to  embark  for  America 

As  jsocm  us  she  became  tolerably  composed,  she 
emreiitcd  pen  and  ink  to  write  to  her  parents.— 
This  she  did  in  the  most  affecting,  artless  manner, 
entreating  their  pardon  and  blessing,  and  describing 
the  dreudt'ul  situation  of  her  mind,  the  conflict  she 
butll-rcd  in  endeavouring  to  coiujiier  this  unfortunate 
meat, .  liiid  concluded  with  saying,  her  rmlv 


[  46  ] 

hope  of  future  comfort  consisted  in  the  (perhaps 
delusive)  idea  she  indulged,  oi  being  once  more 
folded  in  theip  protecting  arms,  and'  hearing  tlys 
"words  of  peace  and  pardon  from  their  lips. 

The  tears  streamed  incessantly  while  she  was 
•writing,  and  she  was  frequently  obliged  to  lay  down 
her  pen  ;  and  when  the  task  was  completed,  and 
she  had  committed  the  letter  to  the  care  of  Montra- 
ville  to  be  sent  to  the  post  office,  she  became  more 
calm,  and  indulging  the  delightful  hope  of  soon  re- 
ceiving an  answer  which  would  seal  her  pardon,  she 
in  some  measure  assumed  her  usual  cheerfulness. 

But  Montraville  knew  too  well  the  consequences 
that  must  unavoidably  ensue,  should  this  letter  reach 
Mr.  Temple;  he  therefore  wisely  resolved  to  walk 
on  the  deck,  tear  it  in  pieces,  and  commit  the  frap;~ 
rnents  to  the  care  of  Neptune,  who  might,  or  might 
not,  as  it  suited  his  convenience,  convey  them  on 
shore- 

All  Charlotte's  hopes  and  wishes  were  now  cen- 
tered in  one,  namely,  that  the  fleet  might  be  detain- 
ed at  Spithead  till  she  could  receive  a  letter  from 
her  friends ;  but  in  this  she  was  disappointed,  for 
the  second  morning  after  she  went  on  board,  the 
signal  was  made,  the  fleet  weighed  anchor,  and  in 
a  tew  hours  (the  wind  being  favourable)  they  bid 
adieu  to  the  white  cliffs  of  Albion. 

In  the  mean  time  every  inquiry  that  could  be 
thought  of  was  made  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Temple  ;  for 
many  days  did  they  indulge  the  fond  hope  that  she 
was  merely  gone  off  to  be  married,  and  that  when 
the  indissoluble  knot  was  once  tied,  she  would 
return  with  the  partner  she  had  chosen,  and  entreat 
their  blessing  and  forgiveness. 

*  And  shall  we  not  forgive  her?'  said  Mr.  Temple^ 

'  Forgive  her!51  exclaimed  the  mother.  *  Oh  yes. 
\vhatever  be  her  errors,  is  she  not  our  child  ?  and 
though  bowed  to  the  earth,  even  with  shame  and 
remorse,  is  it  not  our  duty  to  raise  the  poor  penitent 
and  whisper  peace  and  comfort  to  her  desponding 
soul?  would  she  but  return,  with  rapture  would  1 
fold  her  to  my  heart,  and  bury  every  remembrarccv 
of  her  faults  in  the  dear  embrace-' 


[47] 

But  still  day  after  day  passed  on,  and  Charlotte 
did  not  appear,  nor  were  any  tidings  to  be  heard  of 
her,  yet  each  rising  morn  was  welcomed  by  some 
new  hope — the  evening  brought  with  it  disappoint- 
ment. %  At  length  hope  was  no  more  ;  despair 
usurped  her  place  ;  and  the  mansion  which  was 
once  the  mansion  of  peace,  became  the  habitation 
of  pale,  dejected  melancholy. 

The  cheerful  smile  that  was  wont  to  adorn  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Temple  was  fled,  and  had  it  not  been 
for  the  support  of  unaffected  piety,  and  a  conscious- 
ness of  having  ever  set  before  her  child  '.he  fairest 
example,  she  must  have  sunk  under  this  heavy  af- 
fliction. 

*  Since,*  said  she,  *  the  severest  scrutiny  cannot 
charge  me  with  any  breach  of  duty  to  have  deserv- 
ed this  severe  chastisement,  I  will  bow  before  the 
power  who  inflicts  it  with  humble  resignation  to  his 
will;  nor  shall  the  duty  of  a  wife  be  totally  absorb- 
ed in  the  feelings  of  a  mother :  I  will  endeavour  to 
appear  more  cheerful,  and  by  appearing-  in  some, 
measure  to  have  conquered  my  own  sorrow,  allevi- 
ate the  sufferings  of  my  husband,  and  rouse  him  from 
that  torpor  into  which  this  misfortune  has  plunged 
him.  My  father  too  demands  my  care  and  atten- 
tion: I  must  not  by  a  selfish  indulgence  ot  niy  own 
grief,  forget  the  interest  those  two  dear  objects  take 
in  my  happiness  or  misery  :  I  will  wear  a  siniie  on 
my  face,  though  the  thorn  rankles  in  my  heart ;  and 
if  by  so  doing,  I  in  the  smallest  degree  contribute  to 
restore  their  peace  of  mind,  I  shall  be  amply  re- 
warded for  the  pain  the  concealment  of  my  own 
feelings  may  occasion.' 

Thus  argued  this  excellent  woman ;  and  in  the 
execution  of  HO  laudable  a  resolution  we  shall  leave 
her,  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  hapless  victim  of 
imprudence  and  evil  counsellors. 

CHAPTXVI. 

NECESSARY   DIGRESSION. 

ON  board  ot"  the  ship  in  which  Charlotte  and  Ma 
demoiselle  "were  embarked,  was  an  officer  oj 


[  48  ] 

large  unmcumbered  fortune  and  elevated  rank  and 
•whom  I  shall  call  Crayton. 

He  was  one  ofthose'men,  who  having  travelled  in 
their  youth,  pretend  to  have  contracted  a  peculiar 
fondness  for  every  thing  foreign,  and  to  hold  in  con- 
tempt the  productions  of  their  own  country  ;  and  thie 
affected  partiality  extended  even  to  the  women. 

With  him,  therefore,  the  blushing  mociesty,  and 
unaffected  simplicity  of  Charlotte  passed  unnoticed  ; 
vbut  the  forward  pertness  of  La  Rue,  the  freedom  of 
her  conversation,  the  elegance  of  her  person,  mixed 
with  a  certain  engaging  jc  ne  sais  guoi>  perfectly  en- 
chanted him. 

The  reader,  no  doubt,  has  already  developed  the 
character  of  La  Rue;  designing,  artful,  and  selfish, 
she  had  accepted  the  devoirs  of  Belcour,  because 
she  war,  heartily  weary  of  the  retired  life  she  had 
led  at  the  school,  wished  to  be  released  from  what 
she  deemed  a  slavery,  and  to  return  to  that  vortex 
of  folly  and  dissipation  which  had  once  plunged  her 
into  the  deepest  misery  ;  but  her  plan  she  flattered 
herself  was  now  better  formed  ;  she  resolved  to  put 
herself  under  the  protection  of  no  man  till  she  had 
first  secured  a  settlement ;  but  the  clandestine  man- 
ner in  which  she  left  Madame  Du  Font's,  prevented 
her  putting  this  plan  into  execution,  though  Belcour 
solemnly  protested  he  would  make  her  a  handsome 
settlement  the  moment  they  arrived  at  Portsmouth. 
1  his  he  afterwards  contrived  to  evade  by  a  pretend- 
ed hurry  of  business  ;  La  Rue  readily  conceiving  he 
never  meant  to  fulfil  his  promise, "determined  to 
change  her  battery,  and  attack  the  heart  of  Colonel 
Crayton.  She  soon  discovered  the  partiality  he 
entertained  for  her  nation:  and  having  imposed 
upon  him  a  feigned  tale  of  distress,  represent- 
ing Belcour  as  a  villain  who  had  seduced  her 
from  her  friends  under  promise  of  marriage,  and 
afterwards  betrayed  her,  pretending  great  re- 
morse  tor  the  errors  she  had  committed,  and  de- 
claring whatever  her  affection  tor  Belcour  mighthave 
been,  it  was  now  entirely  extinguished,  and  she  wish- 
ed for  nothing  more  than  an  opportunity  to  leave  a 
course  of  life  which  her  soul  abhorred  ;  but  she  ha^! 


I  49  1 

no  friends  to  apply  to,  they  had  renounced  her,  and 
guilt  and  misery  would  undoubtedly  be  her  future 
portion  through  life. 

Crayton  was  possessed  of  many  amiable  qualities, 
though  the  peculiar  trait  in  his  character,  which  we 
have  already  mentioned  in  a  great  measure  threw 
"i  shade  over  them.  He  was  beloved  for  his  human- 
ity and  benevolence  by  all  who  knew  h;m,  but  he 
•was  easy  and  unsuspicious  himself,  and  became  a 
dupe  to  the  artifice  of  others. 

He  was,  when  very  young,  united  to  an  amiable 
Parisian  lady,  and  perhaps  it  was  his  affection  for 
her  that  laid  the  foundation  for  the  partiality  he  ever 
retained  for  the  whole  nation.  He  had  by  lier  one 
daughter,  who  entered  into  the  world  but  a  few  hours 
before  her  mother  left  it  This  lady  was  universal- 
ly beloved  and  ad  reived,  being*  endowed  with  all  the 
virtues  of  her  mother,  without  the  weakness  of  the 
father  :  sh^  was  married  to  Major  Beauchamp,  and 
was  at  this  time  in  the  same  fleet  with  her  father, 
attending  her  husband  to  New-York. 

Crayton  was  melted  by  the  affected  contrition  and 
distress  of  La  Rue;  he  would  converse  with  her  for 
hours,  read  to  her,  play  cards  with  her,  listen  to  all 
her  complaints,  and  promise  to  protect  her  to  the 
utmost  of  his  power.  La  Rue  easily  saw  his»  charac- 
ter; her  sole  aim  was  to  a  \vaken  a  passion  in  his  bo- 
som that  might  turn  out  to  her  advantage,  and  in 
this  aim  she  was  but  too  successful  ;  tor  before  the 
voyage  was  finished,  the  infatuated  Colonel  gave  her 
from  muter  his  hand  a  promise  of  marriage  on  their 
arrival  an  Ne w-York,  under  a  forfeiture  of  five  thou- 
sand pounds. 

And  how  did  our  poor  Charlotte  pass  her  time 
during  a  tedious  and  tempestuous  passage  ?  natu- 
rally delicate,  the  fatigue  and  sickness  which  she 
endured  rendered  her  so  weak  as  to  be  almost  en- 
tirely confined  to  her  bed  ;  yet  the  kindness  and  at- 
tention ct' MontrnvUIe  m  some  measure  contributed 
to  alleviate  her  sufferings,  and  the  hope  of  hearing 
froci  V  n  after  her  arrival,  kept  up  her 

'}  IE  any  a  gloomy 


But  during  the  voyage  a  great  revolution  took  pl£*£ 
'act  only  in  the  fortune  of  La  Rue,  but  in  the  bosom 
of  Belcour ;  whilst  in  the  pursuit  of  his  amour  with 
Mademoiselle,  he  had  attended  little  to  the  interest* 
Int;  charms  of  Charlotte  ;  but  when  cloyed  by  pos^- 
session,  and  disgusted  with  the  art  and  dissimulation 
of  one,  he  beheld  the  simplicity  and. gentleness  of  the 
other,  the  contrast  became  too  striking  not  to  ESI 
him  at  once  with  surprise  and  admiration.    He  fre- 
quently conversed  with  Charlotte ;  he  found  her  sen- 
sible, well  informed,  but  diffident  and  unassuming. 
The  languor  which  the  fatigue  of  her  body  and  per- 
turbation of  her  mind  spread  over  her  delicate  fea- 
tures, served  only,  in  his  opinion,  to  render  her  more 
lovely  ;  he  knew  that  Montraville  did  not  design  to 
marry  her,  and  he  formed  the  resolution  to  endea- 
vour to  gain  her  himself  w  henever  Montraville  should 
leave  her. 

Let  not  the  reader  imagine  Belcour's  designs  were" 
honourable.  Alas !  when  once  a  woman  has  forgot 
the  respect  due  to  herself,  by  yielding  to  the  solici- 
tations of  illicit  love,  they  lose  all  their  consequence, 
even  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  whose  art  has  betrayed 
them,  and  for  whose  sake  they  have  sacrificed  every 
valuable  consideration. 

The  heedless  Fair,  ivlio  stoops  to  guilty  joys, 
A  man  may  pity — but  he  must  despise. 
Nay,  every  libertine  will  think  he  has  a  right  to 
insult  her  with  his  licentious  passion ;  and  should  the 
unhappy  creature  shrink  from  the  insolent  overture,. 
he  will  sneeringly  taunt  her  with  pretence  of  modi 

cnTpT  xvn. 

A    WEDDING. 

ON  the  day  before  their  arrival  at  New- York,  af- 
ter dinner,  Cray  ton  aro  >e  from  his  seat,  and  p?ac;ng 
himself  by  Mademoiselle,  thus  addressed  the  com  - 
pany. 

*  As  we  are  now  nearly  arrived  at  cnr  destined; 
port,  I  think  it  but  my  duty  to  inform  you,  my  friends, 
that  this  lady,  (taking  her  hand  *  has  placed  herself 
under  in y  protection.     I  have  seen  and  sever  _ 
the  angvthh  ef  her  heart,  smd  ffeiwgh  - 


.1  si  I 

Yfcasctt  cruelty  or  malice  may  throw  ever  her,  cn'n 
discover  the  most  amiable  qualities,  I  thought  it  but 
itecessary  to  mention  my  esteem  for  her  before  our 
disembarkation,  as  it  is  my  fixed  resolution,  the 
morning  after  we  land,  to  give  her  an  undoubted  ti- 
tle to  my  favour  and  protection  by  honourably  uni- 
ting my  fate  to  hers.  I  would  wish  every  gentleman 
•here,  therefore,  to  remember  that  her  honour, 
henceforth  is  mine;  and,' continued  he  looking  at 
Belcour,  '  should  any  man  presume  to  speak  in  the 
least  disrespectful  of  her,  I  shall  not  hesitate  to  pro- 
nounce hi  in  a  scoundrel.' 

Belco  -rcast  at  him  a  smile  of  contempt,  and  bow- 
ing profoundly  low,  wished  Mademoiselle  much  joy 
in  the  proposed  union,  and  assuring  the  Colonel  that 
he  need  not  be  in  the  least  apprehensive  of  any  one 
throwing  the  least  odium  on  the  character  of  his 
lady,  shook  him  by  the  hand  with  ridiculous  gravity, 
and  left  the  cabin. 

The  truth  was,  he  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  La  Rue, 
and  so  he  was  but  freed  from  her,  he  cared  not  who 
fell  a  victim  to  her  infamous  arts 

The  inexperienced  Charlotte  was  astonished  at 
what  she  heard.  She  thought  La  Rue  had,  like  her- 
self,  only  been  urged  by  the  force  of  her  attachment 
to  Belcour,  to  quit  her  friends,  and  follow  him  to  the 
seat  of  war  :  how  wonderful  then  that  she  should 
resolve  to  marry  another  man.  U  was  certainly  ex- 
tremely wrong.  It  was  indelicate  She  mentioned 
her  thoughts  to  Montraviile.  He  laughed  at  her 
simplicity,  called  her  a  little  idiot,  and  patting  her 
on  the  cheek,  said  she  knew  nothing  of  the  world. 
*  If  the  world  sanctions  such  things',  'tis  a  very  bad 
world  \  think,'  said  Charlotte,  ''Why  I  always  un- 
derstood that  they  were  to  have  been  married  when 
they  arrived  at  New-York  I  am  sure  Mademoi- 
selle told  me  Belcour  promised  to  marry  her.' 

*  Well  and  suppose  he  did  ?? 

'Why  he  should  be  obliged  to  keephis  word  I  think/ 

'Well,  but  I  suppose h<  has  changed  his  mind,'  said 
Montraviile,  *  and  then  you  know  the  case  is  altered.' 

Charlotte  looked  at  him  attentively  for  amomen-k 
A  fall  sense  of  her  own  situation  rushed  upon  hey 


[  52  ] 

mind ;  she  burst  into  tears,  and  remained  sil«5t.~ 
Montraville  too  well  understood  the  cause  of  her 
tears  He  kissed  her  check,  arid  bid  her  not  to  make 
herself  uneasy :  and  unable  to  bear  the  keen  but 
silent  remonstrance,  hastily  left  her, 

The  next  morning  by  sunrise  they  found  them- 
selves at  anchor  before  the  city  of  New- York.  A  boat 
was  ordered  to  convey  the  ladies  on  shore.  Cray  ton 
accompanied  them,  and  they  were  shewn  to  a  house 
of  public  entertainment.  Scarcely  >vere  they  seated 
when  the  door  opened,  and  the  Colonel  found  himself 
in  the  arms  of  his  daughter,  who  had  landed  a  few 
minutes  before  him.  The  first  transport  of  meeting 
subsided,  Cray  ton  introduced  his  daughter  to  Made- 
moiselle La  Rue,  as  an  old  friend  of  her  mother's  (for 
the  artful  French  woman  had  really  made  it  appear 
to  the  credulous  Colonel  that  she  was  in  the  same 
convent  with  his  first  wife,  and, though  much  younger 
had  received  many  tokens  of  her  esteem  and  regard.) 

4  If,  Mademoiselle,'  said  Mrs.  Beauchamp,  '  you 
were  the  friend  of  my  mother,  you  must  be  worthy 
the  esteem  of  all  good  hearts  ' 

'  Mademoiselle  will  soon  honour  our  family,'  said 
Crayton, 4  by  supplying  the  place  that  valuable  wo- 
man filled :  and  as  you  are  married,  my  dear,  I 
think  yqu  will  not  blame — * 

*  Hush  my  dear  Sir,'  replied  Mrs.  Beauchamp, 
'  I  know  my  duty  too  well  to  scrutinize  your  con- 
duct ;  be  assured,  my  dear  father,  your  happiness 
is  mine  ;  I  shall  rejoice  in  it,  and  sincerely  love  the 
person  who  contributes  to  it.    But  tell  me,'  con- 
tinued she,  turning  to  Charlotte,  *  who  5s  this  lovely 
girl  !  is  she  your  sister,  Mademoiselle  ?' 

A  blush,  deep  as  the  glow  ot"  the  carnation, 
suffused  the  cheeks  of  Charlotte, 

*  It  is  a  young  lady,'  replied  the  Colonel,  *  who  came 
in  the  same  vessel  with  us  from  England.'    He  then 
rtrew  his  daughter  aside,  and  told  her  in  a  whisper, 
that  Charlotte  was  the  mistress  of  Montraville, 

'What  a  pity!  said  Mrs  Beauchamp  softly,  (cast 
ing  a  most  compassionate  glance  at  her)—     *  But 
surely  her  mind  is  not  depraved     The  goodness  ot 
Jior  heart  is  depicted  in  her  ingenuous  countenance' 


[  53  ,] 

Charlotte  caught  the  \vord.  fiify  /  '  And  am  I  al- 
ready fallen  so  lo»v  ?'  said  she  A  sigh  escaped  her, 
and  a  tear  was  ready  to  start ;  but  Montraville  ap- 
peared, and  she  checked  the  rising  emotion  Ma- 
demoiselle went  with  the  Colonel  and  his  daughter  to 
another  apartment.  Charlotte  remained  withMon- 
iravilie  and  Belcour.  The  next  morning  the  Colonel 
performed  bis  promise,  and  La  Rue  became  in  due 
form  Mrs,  Crayton,  exulted  in  her  own  good  fortune, 
and  dared  to  look,  with  an  eye  of  contempt  on  the 
unfortunate  but  far  less  guilty  Charlotte. 

CHAP-  XVIU. 

REFLECTION. 

'  AND  am  I  indeed  fallen  so  low,'  said  Charlotte, 
as  to  i>e  only  pitied  ?  Will  the  voice  ot  approbation. 
no  more  meet  my  ear  ?  and  shall  1  never  again  pos- 
sess a  friend,  \.rhose  face  will  wear  a  smile  of  joy 
-whenever  i  approach  ?  Alas  !  how  thoughtless,  hovv 
dreadfully  imprudent  have  1  been!  i  know  not 
which  is  most  painful  to  endure,  the  sneer  of  con 
te;apt,or  the  glance  of  compassion,  which  is  depicted 
oil  the  various  countenances  ot  my  own  sex;  they  are 
both  equally  humiliating.  Alas  !  my  clear  parents, 
could  you  now  see  the  child  of  your  affections,  the 
daughter  whom  you  so  clearly  loved,  a  poor  solitary 
being,  without  society,  here  wearing  out  her  heavy 
hours  in  deep  regret  and  anguish  of  heart,  no  kind 
friend  of  her  O'.vn  sex  to  whom  she  can  unbosom  her 
griefs,  no  beloved  mother,  no  woman  ot  character  to 
appear  in  ray  company  ;  and  low  as  your  Charlotte 
is  '.alien,  shs  cannot  associate  with  infamy.' 

These  were  the  painful  sensations  which  occupied 
the  mind  ot  Charlotte.  Moiitraville  had  placed  her 
in  a  small  house  a  few  miles  from  New- York:  he 
gave  her  one  female  attenda.it, and  supplied  her  with 
what  money  she  wanted  ;  but  business  and  pleasure 
so  entirely  occupied  his  time,  that  he  had  but  little 
to  devote  to  the  woman  whom  he  had  brought  from 
all  her  connections,  and  robbed  of  her  innocence, 
Sometimes,  indeed,  he  would  steal  o\it  at  the  close 
fef  evciiia^  i  few  hours  with  her  ;  and  the:? 

E2 


[  54  ] 

so  tvmcii  was  sue  attached  to  him,  tlirit  all  her  sor- 
rows were  forgotten  while  blest  with  his  society ;  she 
•would  enjoy  a  walk  by  moonlight,  and  sit  by  him  in 
;i  J'ttle  arbour  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  and  play 
on  the  harp,  accompanying  it  with  her  plaintive, 
harmonious  voice.  But  often,  very  often  did  he  pro- 
mise, to  renew  his  visits,  and  forgetful  of  his  pro- 
mise, leave  her  to  mourn  her  disappointment.  What 
painful  hours  of  expectation  would  she  pass !  she 
v/ould  sit  at  a  window  which  looked  toward  a  field 
lie  used  to  cross,  counting  the  minutes,  and  straining 
her  eyes  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  his  person,  till, 
blinded  with  tears  of  disappointment,  she  would  lean 
her  head  on  her  hands,  and  give  free  vent  to  her  sor- 
rows ;  then  catching:  at  some  new  hope,  she  would 
again  renew  her  watchful  position,  till  the  shades  of 
evening  enveloped  every  object  in  a  dusky  cloud  ; 
she  would  then  renew  her  complaints,  and  with  a 
heart  busting  with  disappointed  love  and  wounded 
sensibility,  retire  to  a  bed  which  remorse  had  strew- 
t.d  with  thorns,  and  court  m  vain  that  comforter 
of  weary  nature,  (who  seldom  visits  the  unhappy) 
t<f  come  and  sleep  her  senses  in  oblivion. 

Who  can  form  an  adequate  idea  of  the  sorrow 
:hat  preyed  upon  the  mind  of  Charlotte  ?  The  wife 
whose  breast  glows  with  affection  to  her  husband, 
and  who  in  return  meets  only  indifference,  can  but. 
faintly  conceive  her  anguish, 

Dreadfully  painful  is  {he  situation  of  such  a  woman, 
but  she  has  many  comforts  of  which  our  poor  Char- 
lotte was  deprived.  The  duteous,  faithful  wife,  though 
treated  with  indifference,  has  one  solid  pleasure 
vvithin  her  own  bosom  ;  she  can  reflect  that  she  ha 3 
not  deserved  neglect — that  she  has  ever  fulfilled  the 
duties  of  her  station  with  the  strictest  exactness: 
she  may  hope  by  constant  assiduity  and  uiiremitted 
retention,  to  recal  her  wanderer',  and  be  doubly 
happy  in  his  returning  affection  ;  she  know  she  can- 
riot  leave  her  to  unite  himself  to  another ;  he  cannot 
cast  her  out  to  poverty  and  contempt;  she  looks 
around  her,  and  sees  the  smile  of  friendly  welcome, 
or  the  tear  of  affectionate  consolation  on  the  face  of 
every  person  7/ho^,  s(he  favours  yith  to  esfceem  ,c 


and  from  aii  these  circumstances  she  gathers  ecu* : 
fort.  But  the  poor  girl,  by  thoughtless  passion  led 
astray,  who,  in  parting  with  her  honour,  has  forfeit- 
ed the  esteem  of  the  very  man  to  whom  she  has  sa- 
crificed every  thing  dear  and  valuable  in  life,  feels 
his  ill-difference  in  the  fruit  of  her  own  folly,  and  la- 
ments her  want  of  power  to  recal  his  lost  affection; 
she  knows  there  is  no  tie  but  honour,  and  that,  in  a 
tnar  who  IIHS  been  guilty  of  seduction,  is  but  very  fee- 
ble :  he  may  leave  her  in  a  moment  to  shame  and 
\vant  ;  he  may  marry  and  forsake  her  forever  ;— ~ 
and  should  he,  she  has  no  redress,  no  friendly  sooth- 
ing companion  to  pour  into  her  wounded  mind  the 
balm  of  consolation— no  benevolent  hand  to  lead  her 
back  to  the  path  of  rectitude  :  she  has  disgraced  her 
friends,  forfeited  the  good  opinion  of  the  world,  and 
undone  herself;  she  reels  herself  a  poor  solitary  be- 
ing, in  the  midst  of  s-.irromiding  multitudes  ;  slkme 
bows  her  to  the  earth,  remorse  tears  her  distracted 
•fiiind,  and  guilt,  poverty  and  disease  close  the  dread- 
ful scene;  she  sinks  unnoticed  to  oblivion.  The  fin- 
ger oi  contempt  may  point  out  to  some  passing 
daughter  of  youthful  mirth  the  humble  bed  -A  here 
lies  this  frail  sister  of  mortality  ;  and  will  she,  in  the 
unbounded  gaiety  of  her  heart,  exult  in  her  own  un- 
blelmshed  lame  and  triumph  over  the  silent  aches  of 
the  dead  ?  Oh  ijb  !  Us  she  a  heart  of  sensibility,  she 
I  stop  and  thus  address  the  unhappy  victim  of*  folly: 

{  rhottliadsc  thy  faults,  but  sure "thy  sufferings 
have  e:-:;;  :n  ;  thy  errors  brought  thee.  to  an 

early  g  :  thou  wert  a  tViiow  creature — thori 

hast  bet5-.  .;          ry — then  be  those  errors  forgotten/ 

iiien^  tf.ops  to  pluck  the  noxious  v,v< 

froiYi  ciiihe  sv/J,  a  tear  will  fall  and  consecrate  the 
spot  to  Charity. 

Forever  honoured  be  the  sacred  drop  of  humani- 
ty ;  the  .angel  of  mercy  shall  record  its  force  and 
the  sou!  whence  it  sprung  shall  be  immortal. 

My  near  Madam,  cent  act  not  your  brow  into  a 

frown  cf  disapprobation.     I  mean  not  to  extenuate 

the  faults  of  those  unhappy  women  who  fall  victims 

to  guilt  and  folly  ;  but  surely,  when  we  reflect  how 

errors  we  are  ourselves  subject  to,  fcow  many 


I  56  ] 

secret  faults  lie  hid  in  the  recedes  of  our  hearts 
which  \ve  should  blush  to  have  brought  imo  q'trj 
day  (and  yet  those  faults  require  the  lenity  and  pity 
of  a  benevolent  judge,  or  a  \vful  would  be  our  pros- 
pect of  futurity)  I  say  my  dear  Madam,  when  we 
consider  this,  we  surely  may  pity  the  fault  of  others. 

Believe  me,  many  an  unfortunate  femak,  who  has 
once  strayed  into  the  thorny  paths  of  vice,  would 
gladly  return  to  virtue,  was  any  generous  friend  to 
endeavour  to  raise  and  reassure  her :  but  alas !  it 
cannot  be,  you  say  ;  the  world  would  deride  and 
scoff.  Then  let  me  tell  you,  Madam,  'tis  a  very  un- 
feeling world,  and  dees  not  deserve  halt  the  bles- 
sings which  a  bountiful  Providence  showers  upon  it. 

Oh,  thou  benevolent  giver  of  all  good  !  how  shall 
we  erring  mortals  dare  to  look  up  to  thy  mercy  in 
the  great  day  of  retribution,  if  we  now  uncharitably 
refuse  to  overlook  the  errors,  or  alleviate  the  mise- 
ries, of  our  fellow  creatures  ! 

CHAP.  XIX. 

A    MISTAKE    DISCOVERED, 

JULIA  FRANKLIN  was  the  only  child  of  a  man 
of  large  property,  who,  at  the  age  of  eighteen  left 
her  independent  mistress  of  an  unencumbered  income 
ot  seven  hundred  a  year ;  she  was  a  girl  of  a  lively 
disposition,  and  humane,  susceptible  heart:  she  re- 
sided in  New-York  with  an  uncle,  who  loxtd  her  too 
well,  and  had  too  high  an  opinion  of  her  prudeixe, 
to  scrutinize  her  actions  so  much  as  would  have  been 
necessary  with  many  young  ladies  who  \veie  IK >t  blest 
with  her  discretion*.  She  was,  at  the  time  Montra- 
ville  arrived  at  New-York,  the  life  oi"  society,  and 
the  universal  toast.  Montraville  was  introduced  to 
her  by  the  following  accident. 

One  night  when  he  was  upon  guard,  a  dreadful 
fire  broke  out  near  Mr,  Franklin's  house,  which,  in 
a  few  hours,  reduced  that  and  several  others  to 
ashes ;  fortunately  no  lives  were  lost,  and  by  -h<  as- 
siduity of  the  soldiers  much  valuable  property  was 
saved  from  the  flames.  In  the  midst  of  this  confu- 
sion an  old  gentleman  came  up  to  Montravilie,  ar«d 
putting  a  small  bo#  into  his  iuuids,  cried — »  Keep  it, 


jny  good  sir  till  I  come  to  yon  again'— and  then  rush- 
MS  again  into  the  thickest  of  the  crowd,  Montraville 
saw  him  no  more.  He  waited  till  the  fire  was  extin- 
guish^ and  the  mob  dispersed  ;  but  in  vain  ;  the  old 
gentleman  did  not  appear  to  claim  his  property  ;  and 
Mon traville,  fearing  to  make  any  enquiry,  lest  he 
should  meet  with  impostors  who  misfit  lay  claim 
without  any  right  to  the  box,  carried  it  to  l&K 
sngs,  and  locked  it  u]>:  lie  naturally  imagined  that 
the  person  who  committed  it  to  his  care  knew  him 
and  womd,  in  a  day  or  two,  reclaim  it:  but  several 
weeks  passed  on,  and  DO  enquiry  being  made  he  be- 
gan to  be  uneasy,  and  resolved  to  examine  the  con- 
tents  of  the  box,  and  if  they  were,  as  he  supposed, 
valuable,  to  spare  no  pains  to  discover  and  restore 
the  owner.  Upon  ogening  it,  he  found  it 
contained  jewels  to  a  large  amount,  about  two  hun- 
dred pounds  in  money,  and  a  miniature  picture  set 

&  hart  e\°n  examirs the  Picture,  he  thought 
He  had  somewhere  seen  features  very  like  it  but 
could  not  recollect  where.  A  few  days  after,  beirur 
-at a  public  assembly,  he  saw  Miss  Franklin,  and  the 
likeness  was  too  evident  to  be  mistaken  ;  he  enquir- 
ed among  his  brother  officers  if  any  of  them  knew 
her,  and  tound  one  who  was  upon  terms  of  intimacy 
m  the  family-.'  then  introduce  me  to  her  immedi- 
certain  I  can  infbr*  her  of 


•something  which  will  give  her  peculiar  pleasure' 
lie  was  immediately  introduced,  found  she  w 
e  owner  of  the  jewels,  and  was  invited  to  breakfe 


as 
fast 


_-,_.      .v,  •  .  »<-vvi   V.VJ  LIJ  Cctis.IilSt 

next  morning,  m  order  to  their  restitution.  The 
whole  evening  Montraville  was  honoured  with  Julia's 
nand;  tae  lively  sallies  of  her  wit.  the  elegance  o* 
ner  wanner,  powerfully  charmed  him  ;  lie  for-ot 
Charlotte,  and  indulged  himself  in  savin*  every  t 
**  and  tender 


on 


u    on  rt 

recollection  retarned.  •  What  am  I  about  !'  said  he  - 
though  I  cannot  marry  Charlotte,  I  cannot  be  vil- 
lain enough  to  forsake  her,  nor  must  !  dare  to  trifle 
jvuh  the  heart  ot  J.lia  Franklin.  I  wiil  S  this 
box,  aid  he,  which  has  been  the  source  of  so  much 
uneasiness  airendr,  and  in  the  evening  pay  a  visit  to 


[  58  ] 

rny  poor  melancholy  Charlotte,  and  endeavour  to  for- 
get this  fascinating  Julia.' 

He  arose,  dressed  himself,  and  taking  the  picture 
out,  *  I  will  reserve  this  from  the  rest,'  said  he,  and 
by  presenting  it  to  her  when  she  thinks  it  is  lost,  en- 
hance the  value  of  the  obligation.'  He  repaired  to 
Mr.  Franklin's,  and  found  Julia  in  the  breakfast  par- 
lour alone. 

4  How  happy  am  I,  Madam,  said  he,  *  that  being 
the  fortunate  instrument  of  saving  those  jewels  has 
hecn  the  means  of  procuring  me  the  acquaintance  of 
so  amiable  a  lady.  There  are  the  jewels  and  money 
all  safe.' 

'  But  where  is  the  picture,  Sir  ?'  said  Julia. 

'  Here,  Madam  ;  I  would  not  willingly  part  with  it.* 

4  It  is  the  portrait  of  my  mother/  said  she,  taking 
it  from  turn  ;  *  tis  all  that  remains.'  She  pressed  it 
to  her  lips,  and  a  tear  trembled  in  her  eyes-  Montra- 
ville  glanced  his  eye  on  her  grey  night  gown  and 
black  ribbon,  and  his  own  feeling  prevented  a  reply. 

Julia  Franklin  was  the  very  reverse  of  Charlotte 
Temple  :  She  was  tall,  elegantly  shaped,  and  pos- 
sessed much  of  the  air  and  manner  of  a  woman  of 
fashion;  her  complexion  was  a  clear  brown,  enli- 
vened with  the  glow  of  health,  her  eyes  full,  black, 
and  sparkling,  darted  their  ihtelligentglances.  through 
long  silken  lashes,  her  hair  was  shining  brown,  and 
her  features  regular  and  striking;  there  was  an  air 
of  innocent  gaiety  that  played  about  her  countenance* 
where  good  humour  sat  triumphant. 

*  I  have   been    mistaken,'    said   Montraville,    *  I 
imagined  I  loved  Charlotte  ;  but,  alas  !  1  am  now  too 
late  convinced  my  attachment  to  her  was  merely  the 
impulse  of  the  moment.    I  fear  I  have  not  only  en- 
tailed lasting  misery  on  that  poor  girl,  but  also  thrown 
a  barrier  in  the  way  of  my 'own  happiness,  which  it 
•will  be  impossible  to  surmount     1  feel  '  love  Julia 
Franklin  with  ardour  and  sincerity  ;  yet,  when  in 
her  presence,  I  am  sensible  ot'rny  own  inability  to  of- 
i'er  a  heart  worthy  her  acceptance,  and  remain  silent.' 

*  Full  of  these  painful  thoughts,  Montraville  walk- 
ed out  to  see  Charlotte  ;  she  saw  him  approach,  and 


[  59  ] 

Tan  out  to  meet  him  :  she  banished  from  her  coun- 
tenance the  uir  of  discontent  which  ever  appeared 
\vhea  he  was  absent,  and  met  him  with  a  smile  of  joy. 

*  1  thought  you  had  forgot  me,  Montraville,'  said 
she,  *  and  was  very  unhappy.* 

*  I  shall  never  forget  you,'  Charlotte/  he  replied, 
pressing  her  hand. 

The  uncom mon  gravity  of  his  countenance,  and 
the  brevity  of  his  reply,  alarmed  her. 

4  You  are  not  well,'  said  she  ;  *  your  hand  is  hot, 
your  eyes  are  heavy  ;  you  are  very  ill.' 

4 1  am  a  villain,'  said  he  mentally,  as  he  turned 
irom  her  to  hide  his  emotions. 

*  But  come,'  continued  she  tenderly,  *  you  shall  go 
to  her!,  and  I  will  sit  by  and  \vatcji  you  ;  you  will  be 
better  when  you  have  sb.-pt." 

Ivlontraviiie  was  glad  to  retire,  and  by  pretending 
sleep,  hid  the  agitation  of  his  mind  fmm  her  pene 
trating  eye.  Charlotte  watched  by  him  till  a  late 
hour,  and  then,  lying  softly  down  by  his  side,  sank 
into  a  profound  sleep,  from  which  she  awoke  not  till 
lats  the  next  morning. 

CHAP~XX. 
Virtue  never  appears  BO  asuiuble  ns  when  reaching  forth  her 

hand  to  raise  a  fallen  siste?\ — Chapter  nj  decide/its. 
WHEN  Charlotte  awoke,  she  missel  Moi.traville  ; 
hut  thinking  he  might  have  arisen  early  to  enjoy 
the  beauties  of  the  morning,  she  was  preparing  to 
follow  him,  when  casting  her  eye  on  the  table,  she- 
saw  a  note,  and  opening  it  hastily,  found  these  words: 

*  My  dear  Charlotte  jnust  not  be  siirjiri&ed*  if  she 
docs  not  ft  re  me  again  for  some  time  :  unavoidable  bu- 
siness will  Jir  event  me  that  pleasure  :   be  assured  I 
am  quite  well  this  morning  ;  and  what  your  fond  ima- 
gination magnified  into  illness,   was    nothing  more 
than  fatigue,  which  a  few  hours  rest  has  entirely  re- 
moved.    Make  yourself  hajifiy,  and  be  certain  of  th& 
unalterable  friends  hi/i  of  MotfrRAViLLE. 

*  friendship  /'  said  Charlotte  emphatically,  as  she 
finished  the  note ;  *  is  it  come  to  this  at  last  ?    Alas  ! 
poor  forsaken  Charlotte,  thy  doom  is  now  but  too 
apparent,    Montvaville  is  no  longer  interested  in  thy 


[  60] 

happiness ;  and  shame,  remorse,  and   disappointed 
love  will  henceforth  be  thy  only  attendants.* 

Though  these  were  the  ideas  that  involuntarily- 
rushed  upon  the  mind  of  Charlotte  as  she  perused 
the  fatal  note,  yet  after  a  few  hours  had  elapsed,  the 
syren  hope  again  took  possession  of  her  bosom,  and 
she  flattered  herself  she  could,  on  a  second  perusal, 
discover  an  air  of  tenderness  in  the  few  lines  he  had 
left,  which  had  at  first  escaped  her  notice.  *  He  cer- 
tainly cannot  be  so  base  as  to  leave  me,'  said  she, 
4  and  in  styling  himself  my  friend,  does  he  not  promise 
to  protect  me  ?  I  will  not  torment  myself  with  these 
causeless  fears  :  I  will  place  a  confidence  in  his  ho- 
nour, and  sure  he  will  not  be  so  unjust  as  to  abuse  it.5 

Just  as  she  had  by  this  manner  of  reasoning  brought 
her  mind  to  some  tolerable  degree  of  composure,  she 
was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  Belcour.  The  dejec- 
tion visible  in  Charlotte's  countenance, her  swoin  eyes 
and  neglected  attire,  at  once  told  him  she  was  un- 
happy :  he  made  no  doubt  but  Mcntraville  had,  by 
his  coldness,  alarmed  her  suspicions,  and  was  resolv- 
ed, if  possible,  to  rouse  her  to  jealousy,  urge  her  to 
reproach  him,  and  by  that  means  occasion  a  breach 
between  them.  '  If  i  can  once  convince  her  that  she 
has  a  rival,'  said  he,  *  siie  will  listen  to  my  passion 
if  it  is  only  to  revenge  his  slights.*  Belccur  knevr 
but  little  of  the  female  heart ;  and  what  he  did  know 
was  only  of  those  of  loohe  and  dissolute  lives.  He  had 
no  idea'that  a  woman  might  fall  a  victim  to  impru- 
dence, and  yet  retain  so  strong  a,  sense  cf  honour,  as 
to  reject  with  horror  and  contempt  every  solicitation 
to  a  second  fault.  He  never  imagined  that  a  gentle3 
generous  female  lie  art,  once  tenderly  attached, 
when  treated  with  iwkindness  might  break,  but 
"would  never  harbour  a  thought  of  revenge. 

His  visit  was  not  long  ;  but  before  he  went,  he, 
fixed  a  scorpion  in  the  heart  of  Charlotte,  whose 
venom  embittered  every  iuture  hour  of  her  life. 

We  will  now  return  for  a  moment  to  Col  C  ray  ton. 
He  had  been  three  months  married,  and  in  that  little 
time  had  discovered  that  the  conduct  of  his  lad# 
was  not  so  prudent  as  it  ought  to  have  been:  bdt  re- 
mce  was  vain ;  her  temper  wa:~,  vl?hmt :  ann 


[  61  1 

to  the  Colonel's  great  misfortune  he  had  conceived  a 
sincere  affection  for  her  :  slh  saw  her  own  power, 
and  with  the  art  of  a  Ciro,  mad',;  every  action  ap- 
pear to  him  in  what  light  she  pleased:  his  acquain- 
tance laughed  at  his  blindness,  his  friends  pitied  his 
infatuation,  his  amiable  daughter,  Mrs.  Beauchamp, 
in  secret  deplored  tlje  loss  of  her  father's  affection, 
and  grieved  that  he  should  be  so  entirely  swayed  by 
an  artful,  and  she  much  feared,  infamous  woman, 

Mrs.  Beauchamp  was  mild  and  engaging ;  she 
loved  not  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  a  city,  and  had  pre- 
vailed on  her  husband  to  take  a  house  a  few  miles 
from  New-York.  Chance  led  her  into  the  same 
neighbourhood  with  Charlotte.  Their  houses  stood 
•withm  a  short  space  of  each  other,  and  their  gardens 
joined  :  she  had  not  been  long  in  her  new  habitation 
before  the  figure  of  Charlotte  struck  her ;  she  recol- 
lected her  interesting  features  ;  she  saw  the  melan- 
choly so  conspicuous  in  her  countenance,  and  her 
heart  bled  at  the  reflection,  that  perhaps  deprived 
of  honour,  fritnds,  all  that  was  valuable  in  life,  she 
was  doomed  to  linger  out  a  wretched  existence  in  a 
strange  land,  and  sink  broken-hearted  into  an  un- 
timely grave  '  Would  to  heaven  1  could  snatch  her 
from  so  hard  a  fate/  said  she ;  *  but  the  merciless 
•world  has  barred  the  doors  of  compassion  against  a 
poor  weak  girl,  who  perhaps,  had  she  one  kind 
friend  to  raise  and  reassure  her,  would  gladly  return 
to  peace  and  virtue  ;  nay,  even  the  woman  who 
dares  to  pity  and  endeavour  to  recal  a  wandering 
sister,  incurs  the  sneer  of  contempt  and  ridicule,  for 
an  action  in  which  even  angels  are  said  to  rejoice.5 

The  longer  Mrs.  Beauchamp  was  a  witness  to  the 
solitary  Hie  Charlotte  led,  the  more  she  wished  to 
speak  to  her,  and  often  as  she  saw  her  cheeks  wet 
with  the  tears  of  anguish,  she  would  say-—*  D«-ar  suf- 
ferer, how  gladly  would  I  pour  into  your  heart  the 
balm  of  consolation,  were  it  not  for  the  fear  of  derision."* 

But  an  accident  soon  happened  which  made  her 
resolve  to  brave  even  the  scoffs  of  the  world,  rather 
than  not  enjoy  the  heavenly  satisfaction  .of  comfort. 
'•ng  a  desponding  fellow  creature, 
F 


[  62  ] 

Mrs.  Beauchatnp  was  an  early  rfcer.  She  viz* 
one  morning  walking  in  the  garden,  leaning  on  her 
husband's  arm,  when  the  sound  of  a  harp  attracted 
their  notice :  they  listened  attentively, and  heard  a  soft: 
melodious  voice  distinctly  sing  the  following  stanzas  * 
Thou  glorious  orb  supremely  bright, 

Just  rising  from  the  sea, 
To  cheer  all  nature  with  thy  light, 

What  are  thy  beams  to  me  i 
In  vain  thy  glories  bid  me  rise, 
To  hail  the  new-born  day, 
Alas  !  my  morning  sacrifice 

Is  still  to  weep  and  pray. 
For  what  are  nature's  charms  combmMy 

To  one,  whose  weary  breast 
Can  neither  peace  nor  comfort  find, 

Nor  friend  whereon  to  rest ! 
Oh  !  never  !  never !  whilst  I  live 

Can  my  heart's  anguish  ceas£; : 
Come,  friendly  death,  thy  mandate  give, 

And  let  me  be  at  peace. 

4  'Tispooc  Charlotte !'  said  Mrs.  Beauchamp,  the 
pellucid  drop  of  humanity  stealing  down  her  cheek. 
Captain  Beauchamp  was  alarmed  at  her  emotion 
*  What  Charlotte  ?'  said  he ;  '  do  you  know  her  ?' 

In  the  accent  of  a  pitying  angel  did  she  disclose  to 
her  husband  Charlotte's  unhappy  situation,  and  the 
frequent  wish  she  had  formed  of  being  serviceable  to 
her.  *  I  fear/  continued  she,  *  the  poor  girl  has  been 
basely  betrayed ;  and  if  i  thought  you  would  nor 
blame  me,  I  would  pay  her  a  visit,  offer  her  my 
friend  ship,  and  endeavour  to  resto.  c  to  her  heart  that 


some  kind,  affectionate  parents  to  lament  her  errors, 
and  would  she  return,  they  might  with  rapture  re- 
ceive the  poor  penitent,  and  wash  away  her  faults  in 
tears  of  joy.  Oh !  what  a  glorious  reflection  would  it 
be  for  me  could  I  be  the  happv  instrument  of  restoring 
her.  Her  heart  may  not  be  depraved,  Beauchamp.' 
*  Exalted  \voman  !'  cried  Beauchamp,  embracing 
her, 4  how  dost  thou  rise  every  moment  in  my  esteem. 
Follow  the  impulse  pf  thy  generous  heart,  pny  EmiTv 


[  63  1 

Let  prudes  and  fools  censure  if  they  dare,  and  blam£ 
a  sensibility  they  never  felt :  I  will  exultingly  tell  them 
that  the  heart  that  is  truly  virtuous  is  ever  inclined 
to  pity  and  forgive  the  errors  of  its  fellow  creatures. 
A  beam  of  i -Aiilting  joy  played  round  the  animat 
cd  countenance  of  Mrs.  Beauchamp  at  these  enco- 
miums bestowed  on  her  by  a  beloved  husband,  the 
most  delightful  sensations  pervaded  her  heart,  and, 
having  breakfasted,  she  prepared  to  visit  Charlotte. 

CHAP.  XXI. 
Tench  m>e  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see, 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show. 

That  mercy  show  to  me.  raw. 

WHEN  Mrs-  Beauchamp  was  dressed,  she  began 
to  feel  embarrassed  at  the  thought  of  beginning  an 
acquaintance  with  Charlotte,  and  was  distressed 
how  to  make  the  first  visit.  '  I  cannot  go  without 
some  introduction,3  said  she, '  it  will  look  so  like  im- 
pertinent curiosity.'  At  length  recollecting  herselt, 
she  stepped  into  the  garden,  and  gathering  a  tew 
fine  cucumbers,  took  them  in  her  hand  by  way  ot 
apology  for  her  visit. 

A  glow  of  conscious  shame  vermilhoned  Char- 
lotte's face  as  Mrs.  Beauchamp  entered. 

*  You  will  pardon  me.  Madam,'  said  she,  *  for  not 
having  before  paid  my  respects  to  so  amiable  a  neigh- 
bour ;  but  we  English  people  always  keep  up  that 
reserve  which  is  characteristic  of  our  nation  where 
ever  we  go.  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  bring  you 
a  few  cucumbers,  for  I  observed  you  had  none  in 
,-onr  p-arden.' 

Charlotte,  though  naturally  polite  and  well  bred, 

so  confused  site  could  hardly  speak.     Her  kind 

visiior  endeavoured  to  relieve  her  by  not  noticing  her 

vmbarniiisment.    *  1  am  come,  madam,'  continued 

-.me,  4  to  request  you  will  spend  the  day  v/ith  me. 

I  shall  be  alone  :  and,  as  we   are  both  strangers  in 

country,  we  may  hereafter  be  extremely  happy 

in  each  other's  friendship.* 

'  Your  friendship,  Madam/  said  Charlotte,  blush- 
ing,  *  is  an  hor.o/ur  to  all  who  are  favoured  with  it. 
Little  as  i  have  seen  of  this  part  of  the  world,  I  am 


[  64] 
no  stranger  to  Mrs.  Beauchamp's  goodness  of  he&rt 

and  known  humanity  :  but  my  friendship '  She 

paused,  glanced  her  eves  upon  her  own  visible  situ- 
ation, and  sp»te  of  her  endeavours  to  suppress  them, 
burst  into  tears. 

Mrs;  Beauchamp  guessed  the  source  from  whence 
those  tears  flowed.  *  You  seem  unhappy,  Madam / 
said  she :  *  shall  I  he  thought  worthy  of  your  confi- 
dence ?  v/ill  you  entrust  me  with  the  cause  of  your 
sorrow,  and  rest  on  my  assurances  to  exert  my  ut- 
most powev  to  serve  you '  Clfarlotte  returned-  a 
look  of  gratitude,  but  could  not  speak,  and  Mrs, 
Beauchamp  continued—*  My  heart  was  interested 
in  your  behalf  the  first  moment  I  saw  you,  and  I 
only  lament  ;  had  not  made  earlier  overtures  to- 
wards an  acquaintance  ;  but  i  flatter  myself  you  will 
henceforth  consider  m©  as  your  friend.* 

*  Oh  M  idam  !'  crted  Charlotte,  *  1  have  forfeited 
the  good  opinion  of  all  my  friends ;  1  have  forsaken 
them,  and  pr-done  myself/ 

'  Come,  come,  mv  dear,*  said  Mrs.  Beauchamp.p 
*  you  must  no:  indulge  these  gloomy  thoughts  :  You 
are  not  I  hope  so  miserable  as  you  imagine  yourself-: 
cn-deavour  to  be  composed,  and  let  rne  be. favoured 
with  your  company  at  dinner,  when  If  you  can  bring 
yourself  to  think.  n»e  your  friend,  and  repose  a  confi- 
dence in  me,  1  am  ready  to  convince  you  it  shall  not 
be  abused.'  She  then  arose  and  bade  her  good  moni- 

*At  the  dining  hour  Charlotte  repaired  to  Mrs, 
Branch  amp's.,  and  daring  dinner  assumed  as  com- 
posed an  aspect  as  possible;  but  when  the  cloth  was 
removed,  :>:'.- e  sumrno-n-d  ail  her  resolution  and  de- 
termined to  make  Mrs.  Beai.'.charr.p  acquainted  with 
every  circumstance  preceding  her  unfortunate 
elopement,  and  the  earnest  desire  she  had  tf>  quit  a 
•way  of  life  so  repugnant  to  her  feelings. 

With  the  benignant  aspec  of  an  angel  of  mercy 
did  Mrs.  Beauchamp  listen  to  the  artless  taU- :  she 
•was  shocked  to  the  soul  to  find  how  large  a  share 
La  Rue  had  m  the  seduction  of  this  arsfi able  girl,  and 
a  tear  foil,  ^hm  she  reflected  so  vile  a.  woman  was 
BOW  liie  wife  of  her  father,  When  Charlotte  had 


[  65  ] 

finished,  sae  gave  her  a  little  time  to  collect  her 
scattered  spirits,  and  then  asked  her  if  she  had  neve7 
written  to  her  friends. 

4  Oh  yes,  Madame,'  said  she,  *  frequently  :  hut  I 
have  broken  their  hearts  ;  they  are  either  dead  cr 
have  cast  me  oiF forever,  for  1  have  never  received  a 
.single  line  from  them,' 

fc  I  rather  suspect,'  said  Mrs.  Beauchamp, '  they 
never  have  had  your  letters  ;  but  suppose  you  were 
to  hear  from  them,  and  they  were  willing  to  receive 
you,  would  you  then  leave  this  cruel  Mcntraville, 
and  return  to  them  ?'  *  Would  I  !'  said  Charlotte, 
clasping  her  hands,  *  would  not  the  poor  sailor,  tost, 
on  a  tempestuous  ocean,  threatened  every  moment 
with  death,  gladly  return  to  the  shore  he  had  left,  nor 
trust  to  its  deceitful  calmness  r  Oil !  my  dear  Mad- 
am, J  would  return,  though  to  do  it  I  were  obliged  to 
walk  barefooted  over  a  burning  desart,  and  beg  a 
scanty  pittance  of  each  traveller  to  support  my  ex- 
istence. I  would  endure  it  all  cheerfully,  cc-nld  1  biif 
once  more  see  my  dear  blessed  mother,  he-ir  her  pro- 
nounce  my  pardon,  and  bless  n.e  before  i  d  ed  :  bin 
alas  !  I  shall  never  see  her  more  ;  she  has  blotted  the 
ungrateful  Charlotte  from  her  remembrance,  ^n<l  1 
.shall  sink  to  the  grave  loaded  with  her's  and  my  fa- 
hcr's  curse-' 

;  Mrs,  Beauchamp  endeavoured  to  sooth  her.    '  Yon 
''  all  write  to  them  again,'  said  she,  *  and  I  will  see 
,s  at  the  letter  is  sent  by  the  first  packet  that  sails  for 
,  jgland  ;  in  the  mean  time  keep  up  your  spirits,  and 
,  \>e  every  thing,  by  daring  to  deserve  it. 
.-she  then  turned  the  conversation,  and  Charlotte 
Vinir  taken  a  cup  of  tea,  wished  her  benevolent 
end  a  good  evening. 

CHAP   XXII. 

SORROWS    OF    THE    HEART. 

WHEN  Charlotte  got  home,  she  endeavoured  to 
collect  her  thoughts,  and  took  up  a  pen  in  order  to 
address  those  dear  parents,  whom  spite  of  her  er- 
rors, she  still  loved  with  the  utmost  tenderness  :  but 
vain  was  every  effort  to  write  with  the  least  coher- 
ence ;  her  tears  fell  so  fast  they  almost  blinded  her, 
F2 


and  as  sac  proceeded  to  describe  her  unhappy*  sltli- 
ation,  she  became  so  agitated  that  she  was  obliged  to 
give  over  the  attempt  and  retire  to  bed  ;  where, 
overcome  with  the  fatigue  her  mind  had  undergone, 
she  fell  into  a  slumber  which  greatly  refreshed  her, 
and  she  arose  in  the  morning  with  spirits  more  ade- 
quate to  the  painful  task  she  had  to  perform  ;  and 
after  several  attempts,  at  length  concluded  the  fol- 
lowing letter  to  her  mother  : 

To  MRS.  TEMPLE. 

A<?w-  York. 

c  Will  my  once  kind,  my  ever  beloved   mother, 

1.^1  to  receive  a  letter  from  her  guilty,  but  repen- 

'  ;nt  child?    or  has  she,  justly  incensed  at  my  ingra- 

.de,  driven  the  unhappy  Charlotte  from  "her  re- 

rceiribrance '?    Alas!  thou    much  injured  mother1! 

•uldst  thou  even  disown  me,  I  dare  not  complain, 

:ause  I  know  I  have  deserved  it ;    but  yet,  believe 

Ityas  1  an-;,  rind  cruelly  as  1  have  disappoint- 

ihe  hope.,  of  the  fondest  of  parents  that  ever  girl 

•1,  even  in  the  moment  when,  forgetful  of  my  dutv, 

:d  you  and  happiness,  even  then  I  loved  you  mos't, 

iv:y  heart  bled  at  the  thought  of  what  you  would 

or.     Oh  !  never, 'never,  whilst  I  have  existence, 

the  agony  of  that  moment  be  erased  from  my 

Tvemoiy.     It  seemed  like  the  separation  of  soul  ;tiv' 

hody.-— What  can  I  plead  in  excuse  for  my  conduct- 

•::}'^\     That  I  loved  my  seducer  is  but   t 

true  !  yet,  powerful  as  that  passion  is  when  opera?, 

In  a  young  heart  glow  ing  with  sensibility,  itiievij- 

klhuvcicoiiqi.jered  my  affection  to  you,  my  helots 

Brents,  3iad"i  not  been  encouraged,  nay,  uri' 

:ke  the  fatally  imprudent  step,  by  one  of  my  ovji 

;  who,  under  tfe  mask  of  friendship,  drew  me  <t 

'  o  ruin     Yet  think  not  your  Charlotte  was  so  lost  a 

b  voluntarily  rush  into  a  life  ot  infamy ;  no,  my  dear 

mother,  deceived  by  the  specious  appearance  of  my 

betrayer,  and  every  suspicion  lulled  asleep  by  the 

most  soleumpromises  of  marriage,*  thought  notthose 

promises  would  so  easily  be  forgotten.    I  never  once 

reflected  that  the  man  who  could  stoop  to  seduction, 

•would  not  hesitate  to  forsake  the  wretched  object  of 

his  pa§§ion,  whenever  bis  capricSgiis  heart  grew  w$a~ 


•rv  of  her  tenilenieis.   When  we  arrv-  place 

I  vainly  expected  hiai  to  fulfil  his  engagements,  but 
•was  at  last  fatally  convinced  he  had  never  intended 
to  make  me  his  wife,  or  if  he  had  once  thought  of  it, 
his  mind  was  now  altered.  I  scorned  to  claim  from 
his  humanity  what  I  could  net  obtain  from  his  love  ; 
1  was  conscious  of  having  forfeited  the  only  gem  that 
could  render  me  rr-spec.tH.ble  in  the  ev.e  of  the  world ; 
I  locked  my  sorrows  in  my  own  bosom,  and  bare  my 
injuries  in  silence.  But  how  shall  I  proceed  ?  This 
man,  1'his  cruel  Montraville,  for  whom  I  sacrificed 
honour,  happiness,  and  the  love  of  my  friends,  no 
longer  looks  on  me  with  aiFc-ction,  but  scorns  the  cre- 
dulous girl  whom  his  art  has  mr.de  miserable.  Could 
you  see  nic.  my  dear  parents,  wM.rr.ut  society,  with- 
out fr'.-.-uls,  stung wHli  vc.-Tiorse,  and  (I  feel  the  burn- 
h>,;  blush  of  sharnt1  rV.i  "uv  checks  while  I  write  it) 
tortured  with  tr.c  pa;^rs  of  disappointed  love  ;  cut 
to  the  soul  by  theiiuUtfercnce  of  him,  whohavjng  de- 
prived me  of  evf.-ry  other  Curr-fon;,  no  longer  tiiinks 
It  '.vwrtii  ius  whi]  lie  the  heart  where 'he  -has 

<vi  the  thprs)  ^.f  nevei  -ceasing  regret,     My  dai~ 
;y  employ'"-.  :        ~  oi  you  <t!>d  weep,  to  pray 

,n  'iiid  deplore   my  own  folly,  rny 

"  -,-  chance  I 
i  all  forget 
-,s  in  sweet 

=.till  wa]  •  fte  home  to  you  : 

:  '  the  bless- 

ape   and    p-i.rd'in     lixtatic  joy  per- 
j  reach  ir»y  arfns  tocnich  your  dear 
motion  chases  the  illusive  dream  ; 
misery.    At  other  timft*.  1  see  my  fa- 
•ownir.psp'ihit  to  horrid  -caves,  where, 
*.n  the  cold  damp  ground,  in  tl.  •  of  death,  I 

see  my  de;«r  mother  and  rny  reverend  ^rand-father, 
I  strive  to  raise  you ;  you  push  me  from  you,  and 
shrieking,  cry — *  Charlotte,  thou  hast  murdered  me1.1 
Horror  and  despair  tear  every  tortured  nerve  ;  I 
start,  and  leave  my  restless  bed,  weary  and  unre* 
freshed. 

*  Shocking  as  these  reflections  are,  I  have  yet  one 
i$ore  dreadful  than  the  rest.    Mother,  toy  dear  me- 


.ose   mv 

weai-/  eves,  ; 

!     .  '      some  sir?: 

liness  o. 

rsovrov/,  some 

•  liiil-  4        to  pass 

[  63  ] 

tner  f  do  not  let  roe  quite  break  your  heart  when  I 
tell  you  in  a  few  months  I  shall  brine:  into  the  worM 
an  innocent  witness  of  my  guilt.  Oh  my  bleeding 
heart,  1  shall  bring  a  poor  little  helpless'  creature, 
heir  to  infamy  and  shame 

*  This  alone  has  urged  me  once  more  to  address 
you,  to  interest  you  in  behalf  of  this  poor  unborn,  and 
beg  you  to  extend  your  protection  to  the  child  of  your 
lost    harlotte  ;  for  my  own  part  I  have   \vritten  so 
often, so  frequently  have  pleaded  forgiveness,  and  en- 
treated to  be  received  once  more  beneath  the  pater- 
nal roof,  that  having  received  no  answer,  not  even  one 
line,  I  much  fear  you  have  cast  me  from  you  forever. 

*  But  sure  you  cannot  refuse  to  protect  my  inno- 
cent infant ;  it  partakes  not  of  its  mother's  guilt.  Ob 
my  father,  oh  beloved  mother,  now   do  i   feel  the 
anguish  I  inflicted  on  your  hearts  recoiling   with 
double  force  upon  my  own. 

/if  my  child  should  be  a  girl  ('which  heaven  for- 
bid) tell  her  the  unhappy  fate  of  her  mother,  and 
teach  her  to  avoid  my  errors;  if  a  boy,  teach  him  to 
lament  my  miseries,  but  tell  him  not  who  inflicted 
them,  lest  in  wishing  to  revenge  his  mother's  inju- 
ries, he  should  wound  the  peace  of  his  father. 

'And  now,  dear  friends  of  my  soul,  kind  guar- 
dians of  my  infancy  farewell.  1  feei  1  never  more 
must  hope  to  see  you ;  the  anguish  of  my  heart  strike  - 
at  the  strings  of  life,  and  in  a  short  time  I  shall  be  a-4" 
Test.  Oh  could  I  but  receive  your  blessing  and  foi 
giveness  before  i  die,  it  would  smooth  my  passage  " 
the  peaceful  grave,  and  be  a  blessed  foretas  <n~ 
of  a  happy  eternity.  I  beseech  you,  curse  rne  nc\as 
ray  adored  parents,  but  let  a  tear  of  pity  and  pard-  fe" 
/all  to  the  memory  of  y our  lost  CHARLOTT i&h 

-  le 

CHAP.  XXIII. 

A  MAN  MAY    SMILE.  AND    SMILE,  AND  BE  A  VIL- 
LAIN. 

WHILE  Charlotte  was  enjoying  some  small  de- 
gree of  comfort  in  the  consoling  friendship  of  Mrs. 
Beuuchamp,  Montraville  was  advancing  rapidly  in 
!iis  affection  towards  Miss  Franklin  Julia  was  an- 
amiable  girl :  she  saw  only  the  fair  side  of  his  cha- 


[  69  ] 

racter:  she  possessed  an  independent  iovfeunt,  ac£ 
resolved  tobehap'»ywith  the  mnn  6&ierheart,theri^ 
iiis  rniik  and  fortune  were  by  no  means  so  exalted 
as  she  had  a  right  to  expect  ;  ue  passion 

Nvh;di  Montraville  struggled  to  conceal  ;  Uie  w on- 
tiered  at  his  timidity,  but  imagined  the  distance  for*- 
Uuie  had  placed  between  them  <  :1  his  back- 

and  made  every  advance  which  strict- 
prudence  and  a  becoming  modesty 
Mo-itraville  saw  with  pleasure  he  wa'j  not  indiffer- 
ent to  her,  but  a  spark  of  honour  which  animated  hife 
bosom  \vould  not  suffer  him  to  take  advantage  of  hefr 
partiality.  He  was  well  acquainted  with  Charlotte's 
situation,  and  he  thought  there  would  be  a  double, 
cruelty  in  fors&king  her  at  such  a  time :  and  to  mar* 
sy  Miss  Franklin,  while  honour,  humanity,  every 
sacred  law,  obliged  him  still  to  protect  and  support 
Charlotte,  was  a  baseness  at  which  his  soul  shuddered. 

He  comma:. icated  his  uneasiness  to  Bticv  cr  :  it 
v;as  the  very  thim;  this  pretended  friend  had  wished. 
s  And  do  you  really,'  said  he,  laughing,  *  hesitate  at 
marrying  the  lovely  Julia,  and  becoming  matter  of 
her  fortune,  because  a  little  foolish,  fond  g»vl,  chose 
to  leave  her  friends,  and  run  away  with  you  to  A- 
merica  ?  Dear  Montraville,  act  more  like  "a  man  of 
sc-nse  ;  this  whining,  pining  Charlotte,  who  occasions 
you  so  much  uneasiness,  would  have  eloped  wittt 
^sneboriy  else  if  she  had  not  with  you.' 

*  Would  to  heaven/  *  ml  Moatraville,  *  I  had  nev- 
cr  *ecn  her  ;  my  regard  ior  her  was  but  tlie  mom  en- 
'  :irv  prission  of  desire,  but  i  feei  I  shall  love  and  re- 
ere  J;.,iia  Franklin  a.s  Ion,-;  as  I  live  ;  yet  to  leave 
poor  •  havlottc  in  her  present  situation  would  be 
<Turl  bevond  descrjjbtiqnj 

4  Oh  my  good  sentimental   friend.'  said  Belcov.r9 
*  do  you  imagine  no  l»ody  has  a  right  to  provide  for 
be  brat  but  voui>:eif  r' 

rvl(intravUle  started.    *  S'ire/  said  he,  *  you  cannot 

.  \')  insinuate  that  Charlotte  is  false.'" 
i    do  ;iot  insinuate  it,'  said  Belcour,  *  I  know  it,r 

.Vi  ui''  .ivilh-  turned  pale  as  ashes.     *  Then  th^    , 
:^o  f:uth  in  woman,'  said  he. 

'  Wi,\i]e  I -thought  you  au&ched  to  her,'  .    , 


t£uY  with  an  air  c£  indifference, '  I  never  wished  to 
raake  you  uneasy  by  mentioning  her  perfidy,  but  as  I 
know  you  love  and  are  beloved  by  Miss  Franklin,  I 
'was  determined  not  to  let  these  foolish  scruples  of 
honour  step  between  you  and  happiness,  or  your  ten- 
derness for  the  peace  of  ft  perfidious  girl  prevent 
your  uniting  yourself  to  a  woman  of  honour.* 

'  Good  heavens  !'  said  Montraville,  *  what  poig- 
liant  reflection  does  a  man  endure  who  sees  a  lovely 
"woman  plunged  in  infamy,  and  is  conscious  he  was 
lier  first  seducer  ;  but  are  you  certain  of  what  you 
jsay,  Belcour  ?' 

*  So  far,'  replied  he,  *  that  I  myself  have  received 
advances  from  her  which  I  would  not  take  advantage 
of,  out  of  regard  to  you  :  but  hang  it,  thinfc  no  more 
ab  nit  her.  I  dined  at  Franklin's  to-day,  and  Julia 
"bid  me  seek  and  bring  you  to  tea  ;  so  come  along 
3ny  lad,  make  good  use  of  opportunity,  and  seize  the 
gifts  of  fortune  while  they  are  within  your  reach  ' 

Montraville  was  too  much  agitated  to  pass  a  hap- 
py evening  even  in  the  company  of  Julia  Franklin  : 
lie  determined  to  visit  Charlotte  early  the  next 
^morning,  tax  her  with  her  falsehood,  and  take  an 
everlasting  leave  of  her :  but  when  the  morning  came, 
lie  was  commanded  on  duty,  and  for  six  weeks  was 
prevented  from  putting  his  design  in  execution.  At 
Jength  he  found  an  hour  to  spare  ;  and  walked  out 
to  spend  it  with  Charlotte  :  it  was  near  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  when  he  arrived  at  her  cottage  ; 
she  was  not  in  the  parlour,  and  without  calling  the 
servant  he  walked  up  stairs,  thinking  to  find  her  in 
her  bed  room.  He  opened  the  door,  and  the  iir^t  ob- 
ject that  met  his  eyes  was  Charlotte  asleep  awl 
Belcour  by  her  side. 

'  Death  and  destractipn,'  said  he  stamping  ,  *  this 
5s  too  much.  Rise,  villain  and  defend  yourself.'  Be! 
cour  sprang  from  the  bed  The  noise  awoke  Char- 
lotte ;  terrified  at  the  furious  appearance  of  Mon- 
traville, and  seeing  Belcour  with  him  in  the  chamber, 
she  caught  hold  of  his  arm  as  ht  stood  by  the  bed- 
side, and  eagerly,  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

*  Treacherous,  infamous   girl,*  said  he,  *  can  yc»- 
a§k  ?  How  came  he  here  ?'  pointing  to  Belcour, 


[71] 

4  As  heaven  Is  my  witness,*  replied  she  weepiflg 
1  I  do  not  know  ;  I  have  not  seen  him  these  thr^e 
•weeks.' 

*  Then  you  confess  he  sometimes  visits  you?' 

*  He  came  sometimes  by  your  desire.' 

*  'Tis  false  ;  I  never  desired  him  to  come,  and 
you  know  I  did  not  ;  but  mark  me,  Charlotte,  from 
Ihis  instant  our  connection  is  at  an  end.    Let  Bs.1- 
ceur,  or  any  other  of  your  favoured  lovers,  take  you 

ovide  tor  you  :  I  have  done  with  you  forever.' 


He  was  then  going  to  leave  her  ;  but  starting 
ed,  sh 


and  pro 

He  w 

wildly  from  her  bed,  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees 
before  him,  protesting  her  innocence  and  entreating 
hi:  j  noc  to  leave  her.  *  Oh  Montraville,'  said  she, 
'  kill  me,  for  pity's  sake  kill  me,  but  do  not  doubt 
my  fidelity.  Do  not  leave  me  in  this  horrid  situa- 
tion ;  for  the  sake  of  your  unborn  child,  oh  !  spurn 
nor  the  wretched  mother  from  you/ 

'  Charlotte,'  said  he,  with  a  firm  voice,'  I  shall 
take  care  that  neither  you  nor  your  child  want  any 
thi.ig  in  the  approaching  painful  hour  ;  but  we  meet 
no  more.'  He  then  endeavoured  to  raise  her  from 
the  ground  ;  but  in  vain,  she  clung  about  his  knees, 
entreating  him  to  believe  her  innocent,  and  conju^ 
ring  Belcour  to  clear  up  the  dreadful  mystery. 

Balcour  cast  on  Montraville  a  smile  of  contempt  ; 
it  irritated  him  almost  to  madness  ;  he.  broke  from 
the  !*N.-bh*  -unr-sof  the  distressed  girl  ;  she  shrieked 
un  I  ft  11  prostrate  on  the  floor. 

:Vlo  .u-iiviiie  instantly  left  the  house  and  returned 
hastily  to  the  city. 

CHAR"XXJV. 

MYSTERY    DEVELOPED. 

UNFORTUNATELY  ror  Charlotte,  about  three 
weeks  before  this  unfortunate  rencuntre,  Cap- 
tain Beauchamp,  being  ordered  to  Rhode-Island,, 
his  lady  had  accompanied  him,  so  that  Charlotte  was 
deprived,  of  her  friendly  advice  and  consoling  soci- 
ety. The  afternoon  on  which  Montraville  had  visit- 
ed her,  she  hud  found  herself  languid  and  fatigued? 
and  after  ,:  taking  a  very  slight  dinner  had  lain  down 
to  endeavour,  to  recvirit  her  er*hau$te4  spirits,  apfft 


C  ?2 '] 

cBrttrary  to  her  expectations,  had  fallen  asleep.— 
She  had  not  long  be.  n  lain  down,  when  *>elcour  ar- 
rived, for  he  took  every  opportunity  of  visiting  her, 
and  striving  to  awafcen  her  resentment  against  Mon- 
traviile.  He  enquired  of  the  servant  where  her  mis- 
tress was,  and  being'  told  she  was  asleep,  took  up  a 
boo^  to  anmse  himself;  having  s.»t  a  few  minutes, 
he  by  chancL-  cast  his  eye  towards  the  road,  and  saw 
Montraville  approaching  ;  he  instantly  conceived  the 
diabolical  scheme  of  ruining  the  unhappy  Charlotte 
In  his  opinion  f^  revtr  He  therefore  stole  softly  up 
s$airs,  and  laying  hi'nself  by  her  side  with  the  great- 
est precaution,  for  fear  she  should  awake,  was  in 
that  .-situation  discovered  by  his  credulous  friend. 

When  Montraville  spurned  the  weeping  Char- 
lotte from  him,  and  left  her  almost  distracted  with 
terror  and  despair,  Belccur  raised  her  frotr  the  floor, 
and  leading  her  down  stairs,  assumed  the  part  of  a 
tender  consoling  friend  :  she  listened  to  the  argu- 
ments he  advanced  with  apparent  composure  ;  but 
this  was  only  the  calm  of  a  moment  ;,  the  remem- 
brance of  Montravjlle's  recent  cruelty  again  rushed 
upon  her  mind;,  she  pushed  him  from  her  with 
some  violence,  and  crying,  *  Leave  me,  Sir.  1  be- 
•seech  you  le'ive  me  for  much  I  fear  you  have  been 
the  cause  of  my  fidelity  being  suspected  ;  go,  leave 
me  to  the  accumulated  miseries  my  own  impru- 
ee  has  brought  upon  me.' 

She  then  left  him  with  precipitation,  and  retiring 
•lo  her  own  apartment,  threw  herself  on  the  bed^ 
and  gave  vent  to  an  agony  of  grief,  which  It  is  im- 
possible to  describe. 

It  now  occurred  to  Belcour  that  she  might  pos- 
^ibly  write  to  Montraville,  and  endeavour  to  convince 
Inm  of  her  innocence  ;  he  well  aware  of  her  pathet- 
ic remonstrances,  and'  sensible  of  the  tenderness  of 
Montraville's  heart,  he  resolved  to  prevent  any  let- 
ters ever  reaching  him  ;  he  therefore  called  the  ser- 
vant, and  by  the  powerful  persuasion  of  a  bribe, 
prevailed  with  her  to  promise  whatever  letters  her 
/nistress  might  write  should  be  s^nt  to  him-  He  then 
}?ft  a  polite,  tender  note  for  Charlotte,  and  returned 
tc?  Naw-Yorku  His  first  busiuess  was  to  seek  Men 


t  73  ] 

travilte,  and  endeavour  to  convince  him  that  whdfc 
had  happened  would  ultimately  tend  to  his  happi- 
ness :  he  tbuiul  him  in  his  apartment,  solitary,  pen- 
sive, and  \vrapped  in  disagreeable  reflections. 

'  YVhy,  how  now,  whining,  pining  lover?'  said  he, 
clapping  him  on  th,e  shouider.  Montraville  started i 
a  momentary  flush  of  resentment  crossed  his  cheek* 
but  instantly  gave  place  to  a  death  like  paleness,  oc  < 
casioned  by  painful  remembrance- — remembrance 
awakened  by  that  monitor,  which,  though  we  may 
in  vain  endeavour,  we  can  never  entirely  silence. 

4  Belcour/  said  he,  •  you  have  injured  me  in  3, 
tender  point.* 

'  Prithee,  Jack,'  replied  Belcour,  *  do  not  make  * 
serious  matter  of  it :  how  could  i  refuse  the  girl's 
advances?  and  thank  heaven  she  is  not  your  wife.' 

4  True/  said  Montraville  ;  *  but  she  was  innocent 
\vhen  i  first  knew  her.  U  was  I  seduced  her,Belcour. 
Had  it  not  been  for  me,  she  had  still  been  virtuous 
and  happy  in  the  affection  and  protection  of  herfa* 
mily.' 

*  Pshaw/  replied  Belcour,  laughing,  *  if  you  hafl 
not  taken  advantage  of  her  easy  nature,  some  othei? 
would,  and  where  is  the  difference,  pray  ? 

*  J  wish  I  had  never  seen  her,  cried  he  passionately, 
and  starting  from  his  seat.    *  Oh  that  cursed  French 
•worn an/ added  he  with  vehemence  ;  *  had  it  rat  beem 
for  her,  I  might  have  been  happy- '    He  paused, 

'  With  Julia  Franklin/  said  Belcour.  The  name 
like  a  sudden  spark  of  electric  fire,  seemed  for  * 
moment  to  suspend  his  faculties — for  a  moment  ha 
was  transfixed  ;  but  recovering,  he  caught  Belcoar's 
hand,  and  cried — '  Stop  !  stop !  1  beseech  you,  name 
not  the  lovely  Julia  and  the  wretched  Montraville  m 
the  same  breath.  I  am  a  seducer,  a  mean,  ungene-* 
TOUS  seducer  of  unsuspecting  innocence.  I  dare  not 
hope  that  purity  like  hers  would  stoop  to  unite  itself 
with  black,  premeditated  guilt :  yet  by  heavens  t 
swear,  Belcour,  I  thought  I  loved  the  lost  abandoned 
Charlotte  till  I  saw  Julia — I  thought  I  never  could 
forsake  her ;  but  the  heart  is  deceitful,  and  1 
plainly  a&cnuuaate  between  the  imjp^e 

Q 


[74] 

fol  passion,  and  the  pure  flame  of  disinterested  affec- 
tion.' 

At  that  instant,  Julia  Franklin  passed  the  window 
leaning  on  her  uncle's  arm.  She  curtsied  as  she 
passed,  and,  with  a  bewitching  smile  of  modest  cheer- 
fulness, cried — *  do  you  bury  yourselves  in  the  house 
this  fine  evening,  gents  r"  There  was  something  in 
the  voice,  the  manner,  the  look,  that  was  altogether 
irresistable.  '  Perhaps  she  wishes  my  company,' 
said  MontravHle  mentally,  as  he  snatched  up  his  hat : 
*  if  I  thought  she  loved  me,  I  would  contVss  my  errors 
and  trust  to  her  generosity  to  pity  and  pardon  me.' 
He  soon  overtook  her,  and  offering  her  his  arm,  they 
sauntered  to  pleasant,  but  unfrequ-  nted  walks.  Bel- 
Cour  drew  Mr.  Franklin  on  one  side  and  entered  into 
a  political  discourse — they  walked  faster  than  the 
young  people,  and  Belcour  by  some  nu-ans  contrived 
entirely  to  lose  sight  of  them.  It  was  a  fine  evening 
in  the  beginning  of  autumn  ;  the  list  remains  of  day- 
light streaked  the  western  sky ;  while  the  moon,  with 
pale  and  virgin  lustre,  in  the  room  of  gorgeous  gold 
and  purple,  ornamented  the  canopy  of  heaven  with 
ailvrr,  fleecy  clouds,  which  now  and  then  half  hid  her 
lovely  face,  and  by  partly  concealing,  heightened 
every  beauty;  the  zephyrs  whispered  softly  through 
the  tr*  es,  which  now  began  to  shed  their  leafy  ho- 
nours ;  a  sole 'ii n  silence  reigned  ;  and  to  a  happy 
nrnid,  an  evening  such  as  this  wouki  t;ive  serenity,, 
and  calm  unruffled  pleasure ;  but  to  Montraville, 
while  it  suited  the  turbulence  ot  his  passions,  it 
brought  increase  of  melancholy  .reflections.  Julia 
•was  leaning  on  his  arm  ;  he  took  her  hand  in  his* 
and  pressing  it  tenderly,  sighed  deeply,  but  continu- 
ed silent.  Julia  was  embarrassed;  she  wished  to 
bivak  a  silence  so  unaccountable,  but  was  unable  - 
she  ioved  Montraville,  she  saw  he  was  unhappy,  and 
•Wished  to  know  th /  cause  of  his  uneasiness,  but  that 
innate  modesty  which  nature  has  implanted  in  the 
fe  nale  breast,'  prevented  her  inquiring-  '  1  am  bad 
company,  Miss  Franklin, l  said  he,  at  last  recollecting 
hi  ins  *lf,  '  but  {  nave  met  with  something  to-day 
^iwdk  ha?  greatly  distressed  nae,,  and  I  cannot  shak£ 


[75  ] 

off  the  disagreeable  impression  it  has  made  on  nay 
mind-' 

4  I  am  sorry/  she  replied,  *  that  you  have  any 
cause  of  inquietude.  I  am  sure  if  you  were  as  hap- 
py as  you  deserve,  and  as  all  your  friend*  wish  you.5 

she  hesitated:    *  and  might  i,'   replied  he,  with 

some  animation,  *  presume  to  rank  the  amiable  Julifc 
in  that  number?' 

*  Certainly ,'  said  she,   *  the  service  you  have  ren- 
dered me,  the  knowledge  of  your  worth,  all  combine 
to  make  nre  esteem  you.' 

*  Esteem,  my  1  >vely  Julia,'   said  he,  passionately, 
'  is  but  a  poor  cold  word.    I  would,  if  I  dared,  if  I 
thought  I  merited  your  attention — but  no,  I  must  not 
• — honour  forbids.     I  am  beneath  your  notice,  Julia,  I 
am  miserable,  and  cannot  hope  to  be  otherwise.' 

*  Alas !  *  said  Julia,  k  I  p  ty  you.' 

*  Oh  thou  condescending  charmer,'  said  he,  '  howr 
that  s  >  eet  word  cheers  my  sad  heart     Indeed  i£ 
you  knew  all,  you  would  pity :  but  at  the  same  timo 
1  fear  you  would  despise  me.' 

Just  then  th*  y  were  again  joined  by  Mr.  Franklitt 
and  Belcour.  It  had  interrupted  au  interesting  dis- 
course. They  found  it  impossible  to  converse  on  in- 
different subjects,  and  proceeded  home  in  silence. 
At  iVfr.  Franklin's  door  Montraville  again  pressed 
Julia's  hand  and  faintly  articulating  *  good  night," 
retired  to  his  longings  dispirited  and  wretched,  from. 
a  consciousness  thathe  deserved  not  the  affection  witfe 
•which  he  plainly  saw  he  was  honoured. 


CHAP.  XXV. 

RECEPTION   OF    A   LETTER. 

*  AND  where  is  our  poor  Charlotte,  'said  Mr.  Tcra- 
pie,  one  evening,  as  the  cold  blasts  of  autumn  whist- 
led rudely  over  the  heath,  and  the  yellow  appearance 
of  the  distant  wood  spoke  the  near  approach  ot  win- 
ter. In  vain  the  cheerful  iire  blazed  on  the  hearth, 


[  76  ] 

HI  vain  was  he  surrounded  by  all  the  comforts  of  life ; 
the  parent  was  still  alive  in  his  heart;  and  when  he 
thought  that  perhaps  his  once  darling  child  was  ere 
this  exposed  to  ?,!!  the  miseries  of  want  in  a  distant 
land,  without  a  friend  to  soothe  and  com  fort  her, 
\vithout  the  benignant  look  of  compassion  to  cheer, 
or  the  angelic  voice  of  pity  to  pour  the  balm  of  con- 
solation on  her  wounded  heart ;  when  he  thought  of 
this,  his  whole  soul  dissolved  in  tenderness ;  and 
vhile  he  wiped  the  tear  of  anguish  from  the  eye  of 
his  patient,  uncomplaining  Lucy,  he  struggled  to  sup- 
press the  sympathetic  drop  that  started  in  his  own. 
a  Oh,  my  poor  girl,'  said  Mrs.  Temple,  *  how  must 
she  be  altered,  else  surely  she  would  have  relieved 
our  agonizing  minds  by  one  line,  to  say  she  lived — to 
Say  she  had  not  quite  forgotten  the  parents  who  idol* 
ized  her.* 

*  Gracious  heaven  S'  said  Mr,  T.  starting  from  his 
Seat ;  *  who  would  wish  to  be  a  father,  to  experience 
the  agonizing  pangs  inflicted  on  a  parent's  heart  by 
the  ingratitude  of  a  child?*  Mrs.  Temple  wept: 
her  father  took  her  hand :  he  would  have  said,  *  be 
Comforted  my  child/  but  the  words  died  on  his 
tongue.  The  sad  silence  that  ensued  was-interrupt- 
ed  by  a  loud  rap  at  the  door,  in  a  moment  A  servant 
entered  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

Mrs  Temple  took  it  from  him  ;  she  cast  her  eves 
|tm  the  superscription  ;  she  knew  the  writing.  *  'Tis 
Charlotte,'  said  she,  eagerly  breaking  the  seal,  *  she 
lias  not  quite  forgotten  us*  But  before  she  had  half 
jgone  through  the  contents,  a  sudden  sickness  seized 
her ;  she  grew  cold  aid  giddy,  and  putting  it  into 
her  husband's  hand,  she  cried,  '  Read  it,  I  cannot/ 
Mr.  Temple  attempted  to  read  it  aloud,  but  fre- 
quently paused  to  give  vent  to  his  tears.  c  My  poor 
deluded  child,'  said  he  when  he  had  finished. 

*  Oh,  shall  we  not  forgive  the  dear  penitent  ?'  said 
Mrs.  Temple,  '  We  must,  we  will,  my  love  ;  she 
|s  willing  to  return,  and  it  is  our  duty  to  receive,  her/ 
'  Father  of  mercy,'  said  Mr.  Eldridge,  raising  his 
clasped  hands,  Met  me  but  live  once  more  to  see 
Ahe  dear  wanderer  restored  to  her  afflicted  parents 


C  77  ] 

raid  take  me  from  this  world  of  sorrow  whenever  ii 
seemeth  best  to  thy  wisdom.' 

*  Yes,  we  will  receive  her,'  said  Mr.  Temple,  *  we 
will  endeavour  to  heal  her  wounded  spirit,  and  speak 
peace  and  comfort  to  her  agitated  soul.  I  will  write 
to  her  to  return  immediately ' 

*  Oh !'  said  Mrs.  Temple,  c  I  would  if  possible,  fry 
to  her  support  and  cheer  the  dear  sufferer  in  the 
approaching  hour  of  distress,  and  tell  her  how  near- 
ly penitence  is  allied  to  virtue.     Cannot  we  go  and 
conduct  her  home,  my  love  ?'  continued  she,  laying 
her  hand  on  his  arm — *  My  father  will  surely  forgive 
our  absence  if  we  go  to  bring  home  his  darling.' 

*  You  cannot  go,   my  Lucy,'  said  Mr  Temple  ; 
*  the  delicacy  of  your  frame  would  but  poorly  sus- 
tain the  fatigue  of  a  long  voyage  ;  but  I  will  go  and 
bring  the  gentle  penitent  to  your  arms :  we  may  stil! 
See  many  years  of  happiness/ 

The  struggle  in  the  bosom  of  Mrs.  Temple  be- 
tween maternal  and  conjugal  tenderness  was  long: 
and  painful.  At  length  the  former  triumphed,  and 
she  consented  that  her  husband  should  set  forward 
to  New-York  by  the  first  opportunity ;  she  wrote  to 
hen'  Charlotte  in  the  tenderest,  xnostxonsoling  man- 
ner, and  looked  forward  to  the  happy  hour,  when 
she  should  again  embrace  her,  with  the  most  ani 
mated  hope. 


CHAP.  XXVI. 

MIGHT  SE   EXPECTED, 

IN  the  mean  time  the  passion  Montraville  hnd 
conceived  for  Julia  Franklin  daily  increased,  and  he 
saw  evidently  how  much  he  was  beloved  by  that 
amiable  girl ;  he  was  likewise  strongly  prepossessed 
with  an  idea  ot  Charlotte's  perfidy.  What  wonder 
then  if  he  gave  himself  up  to  thedelightful  sensation 
which  pervaded  his  bosom  ;  and  finding  no  obstacle 
to  oppose  his  happiness,  he  solicited  au*l  ob~ 


[  78  ] 

tained  the  hand  of  Julia.  A  tew  days  before  his  mar-* 
riage  he  thus  addressed  Delcour  ; 

'  Though  Charlotte,  by  her  abandoned  conductfl 
has  thrown  herself  from  my  protection,  1  still  hold 
myself  bound  to  support  her  till  relieved  from  her 
present  condition,  and  also  to  provide  tor  the  child. 
I  do  not  intend  -to  see  her  again,  but  1  will  place  a 
sum  of  money  in  your  hands,  which  will  amply  sup- 
ply her  \vith  every  convenience  £  but  should  she  re- 
quire more,  let  her  have  it,  and  1  will  see  it  repaid, 
1  wish  I  could  prevail  or.  the  poor  deluded  girl  to  re- 
turn to  her  friends;  she  was  an  only  child,  and  I 
make  no  doubt  but  that  they  would  joyfully  receive 
]ier ;  it  would  shock  me  greatly  to  see  her  hence- 
forth leading  a  life  of  infamy  :  as  I  should  alv>  ays  ac- 
cuse myself  of  being  the  primary  cause  of  all  her 
errors.  If  she  should  choose  to  remain  under  your 
protection,  be  kind  to  her,  Belcour,  I  conjure  "you. 
I^et  not  satiety  prompt  you  to  treat  her  in  such  a 
manner,  as  may  drive  mfr  to  actions  which  necessity 
might  urge  her  to,  while  her  better  reason  disap- 
proves them,;  she  shall  never  want  a  friend  while  I 
live,  but  1  never  more  desire  to  behold  her ;  her 
presence  would  be  always  painful  to  me,  and  a  glance 
from  her  eye  would  call  the  blush  of  conscious  guilt 
into  my  cheek. 

•  I  will  write  a  letter  to  her,  which  you  may  de- 
liver when  1  am  gone,  as  I  shall  go  to  St.  EustatH* 
the  dr»y  after  my  union  with  Julia  who  will  accompa- 
ny me ' 

Belcour  promised  to  fulfil  the  request  of  his  friend, 
though  nothing  was  farther  from  his  intentions,  than 
the  least  design  of  delivering  the  letter,  or  making 
Charlotte  acquainted  with  the  provision  MontravilJc 
had  made  for  her:  he  was  bent  on  the  complete  ruin 
of  the  unhappy  girl,  and  bupposvd  by  reducing  her  to 
an  entire  dependence  on  him,  to  bring  her  by  de- 
grees to  consent  to  gratify  his  ungenerous  passion. 

The  evening  before  the  day  appointed  for  the  nup- 
tials of  M  >ntraville  and  Julia,  the  former  retired  ear- 
ly to  his  apartment ;  and  ruminating  on  the  past 
Irenes  of  his  lifea  suffered  the  Keenest  remorse  ia  Al*e 


[79} 

i^raembrance  of  Charlotte's  seduction—' Poor  girl,* 
said  he,  *  I  will  at  least  write  and  bid  her  adieu ;  T 
will  too  endeavour  to  awaken  that  love  of  virtue  in 
her  bosom  which  her  unfortunate  attachment  to  me 
lias  extinguished.*  He  took  up  the  pen  and  began  to 
\vrite,  but  words  were  denied  him.  How  could  he 
addre&s  the  woman  whom  he  had  seduced,  and  whom, 
though  he  thought  unworthy  his  tenderness,  he  was 

about  to  bid  adieu  forever  ? -How  should  he  tell 

her  he  was  going  to  abjure  her  to  enter  into  the  most 
f«dissoluble  ties  with  another,  and  that  he  could  not 
even  own  the  infant  which  she  bore  as  his  child  t 
Several  letters  were  begun  and  destroyed  ;  at  length 
lie  completed  the  following: 

To  CHARLOTTE. 

*  Though  I  have  taken  up  my  pen  to  address  you, 
my  poor  injured  girl,  1  fell  I  am  inadequate  to  the 
task ;  yet,  however  painful  the  endeavour,  1  could 
not  resolve  upon  leaving  you  forever  without  one 
kind  line  to  bid  you  adieu,  to  tell  you  how  my  heart 
bleeds  at  the  remembrance  of  what  you  was,  before 
you  saw  the  hated  Montraville  Even  now  imagin- 
ation paints  the  scene,  when  torn  by  contending  pas- 
sions, when  struggling  between  love  and  duty,  you 
fainted  in  my  arms,  and  I  lifted  you  into  the  chaise  ; 
I  see  the  agony  of  your  mind,  when,  recovering,  you 
found  yourself  on  the  road  to  Portsmouth — but  how, 
my  gentle  girl,  ho-.-  could  you,  when  so  justly  im- 
pressed with  the  value  of  virtue,  how  could  you, 
when  loving  as  1  thought  you  loved  me,  yield  to  the 
solicitations  of  Belcour  ? 

'  Oh*,  Charlotte,  conscience  tells  me  it  TV  as  I»  vil- 
lain that  I.  am,  who  first  taught  you  the  allurements 
of  guilty  pleasure;  it  was  I,  who  dragged  yoi 
the  calm  repose  which  innocerce  and  virtue  ever 
enjoy;  andean  I,. dare  I  tell  you,  it  was  not  love 
prompted  to  the  horrid  deed  !  No,  thou  dear  fallen 
angel,  believe  your  n  peutant  Montraville,  when  he 
tells  you  the  man  who  truly  loves,  will  never  betray 
tk^  object  oi  his  afifeak>#,  Adieu,  Charlotte  ;  could 


(80] 

you  still  find  charms  in  a  life  of  unoffending  innos. 
cence  return  to  your  parents  ;  you  sha»l  nev  r  want 
the  .^eans  <;f  support  both  for  you:  self  and  child  Oh 
gracious  heaven  !  may  that  child  be  entirely  free 
from  the  vices  of  its  father  and  the  weakness  of  its 
mother. 

4  To-morrow but  no,  I  cannot  tell  you  what 

to-morrow  will  produce  ;  Belcour  will  inform  you  : 
lie  also  has  c  ish  for  you,  which  I  beg  you  will  ask 
for  whenever  you  may  want  it.  Once  more  adieu  ; 
believe  me  could  I  hear  you  was  returned  to  your 
friends,  and  enjoying  that  tranquillity  of  which  I  Yob- 
bed  you,  should  be  as  completely  happy  as  even 
you,  in  your  foulest  hoars,  could  wish  me ;  but  till 
then,  a  gloom  will  obscure  the  brightest  prospects 

Of  MoNXRAVILLE. 

After  he  had  sealed  this  letter,  he  threw  himself 
on  the'  bed,  and  enjoyed  a  few  hours  repose.  Ear- 
ly in  the  morning  Belcour  tapped  at  his  door ;  he 
arose  hastily,  and  prepared  to  meet  his  Julia  at  the 
altar. 

*  This  is  the  letter  to  Charlotte,1  said  he,  giving 
it  to  Belcour  ;  '  take  it  to  her  when  we  are  gone  to 
Eustatia :  and  I  conjure  you,  my  dear  friend,  not  to 
use  any  sophistical  arguments  to  prevent  her  return 
to  virtue,  but  should  she  incline  that  way,  encourage 
her  in  the  thought,  an4  assist  her  to  put  her  design 
in  execution.' 


CHAP.  XXVII. 

Pensive  she  raouru'd,  and  hung  her  languid  head* 
J^ike  a  fair  l<!!y  overcharged  with  dew. 

CHARLOTTE  had  now  been  left  almost  three 
months  a  prey  to  her  own  melancholy  reflections — 
sad  companions  indeed ;  nor  did  any  one  break  in 
upon  her  solitude  but  Belcour,  who  once  or  twice 
Called  to  enquire  alter  her  health,  and  tsU  her  h§ 


r  si  ] 

had  in  vain  endeavoured  to  bring  Montraville  to  hear 
reason  ;  and  once,  but  on! y  once,  was  her  mind  cheer- 
ed by  the  receipt  ot  an  affectionate  letter  from  Mrs. 
Beauchamp.  Often  had  she  wrote  to  her  perfidious 
seducer,  and  with  the  most  persuasive  eloquence  en- 
deavoured to  convince  him  of  her  innocence ;  but 
these  letters  were  never  suffered  to  reach  the  hand 
ot  Montraville,  or  they  must,  tho'  on  the  very  eve  of 
marriage*  have  prevented  his  deserting  the  wretch- 
ed girl.  Real  anguish  of  heart  had  in  a  great  mea- 
sure faded  her  charms,  her  cheeks  were  pale  for 
want  of  rest,  and  her  eyes,  by  frequent,  indeed  al- 
most continued  weeping,  were  sunk  and  heavy.  Some- 
times a  gleam  of  hope  would  play  about  her  heart 
when  she  thought  of  her  parents — 4  They  cannot 
surely,'  she  would  say,  *  refuse  to  forgive  me ;  or 
should  they  deny  their  pardon  to  me,  they  will  not 
hate  my  innocent  infant  on  account  of  its  mother's 
errors.'  How  often  did  the  poor  mourner  wish  for 
the  consoling  presence  of  the  benevolent  Mrs.  Beau- 
champ,  '  If  she  were  here*'  she  would  cry,  •  she 
would  certainly  comfort  me,,  and  soothe  the  distrac- 
tion of  my  soul-' 

She  was  sitting1  one  afternoon,  wrapped  in  these 
melancholy  reflections,  when  she  was  interrupted  by 
the  entrance  of  Belcour-  Great  as  the  alteration 
was  which  sorrow  had  made  on  her  person,  she  vas 
still  interesting,  still  charming :  and  the  unhallow- 
ed flame,  which  had  urged  Belcour  to  plant  dissen- 
tion  between  her  and  Montraville,  still  raged  5n  his 
bosom  :  he  was  determined  if  possible,  to  make  her 
his  mistress:  nay,  he  had  even  conceived  the  diabo- 
lical scheme  of  taking  her  to  New-York,  and  mak- 
ing her  appear  in  every  public  place  where  it  was 
likely  she  would  meet  Montraville,  that  he  might  be 
a  witness  to  his  unmanly  triumph. 

When  he  entered  the  room  where  Charlotte  was 
sitting,  he  assume-]  the  look  of  tender  consolatory 
friendship.  *  /Ynd  how  does  my  lovely  Charlotte  r 
said  he,  taking  her  hand:  '  I  fear  you  are  not  so 
well  as  I  could  wish.' 

'  I  am  i\pt  well,  Mr.  Be}coi)r,'  said  she*  *  very  far 


C  82  ] 

from  it :  but  the  pains  and  infirmities  of  the  body  I 
could  easily  bear,  nay  submit  to  them  with  patience 
were  they  not  aggravated  by  the  most  insupporta- 
ble anguish  of  my  mind  ' 

*  You  are  not  happy,  Charlotte,'  said  he,  with  a 
look  of  well  dissembled  sorrow. 

*  AUs!'  replied  she  mournfully,  shaking  her  head, 
*  how  can  I  be  happv,  deserted  and  forsaken  as  I  am, 
without  a  friend  of  my  own  sex  to  whom  I  can  un- 
burthen  my  full  heart,  my  fidelity  suspected  by  the 
very  man  for  whom   I    have   sacrificed  every  thing 
valuable  in  life,  for   whom  1  have  made  myself  a 
poor  despised  creature,  an  outcast  from  society,  an 
object  only  of  contempt  and  pit)  ' 

*  You  think  too  meanly  of  yourself,  Miss  Temple: 
there  is  no  one  who  would  dare  to  treat  \ou  with 
contempt:  all  who  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing 
you  must  admire  and  esteem-    You  are  lonely  lure, 
my  dear  girl :  v*ive  me  leave  to  conduct  you  to  New- 
York,  where  tiie  agreeable  society  of  some  ladies,  to 
whom  I  will  introduce  you,   will  dispel  th.se  sad 
thoughts,  and  I  shall  again  see  returning  cheerful- 
ness animate  those  lovely  features.' 

'  Oh  never!  never!'  cried  Charlotte  emphatical- 
ly :  *  the  virtuous  part  of  my  sex  will  scorn  me,  and  I 
will  never  associate  with  infamy.  No,  Belcour,  here 
let  me  hide  mv  shame  and  sorrow,  here  let  nr>e  spend 
rny  few  remaining  days  in  obscurity,  unknown  and 
unpitied,  here  let  me  die  unla  nented,  and  may  my 
name  sink  to  oblivion  *  Here  her  tears  stopped  her 
utterance  Belcour  was  awed  to  silence:  he  dared 
not  interrupt  her:  and  after  a  moment's  pause  she 
proceeded — '  I  once  had  conceived  the  thought  of 
going  to^  New-York  to  seek  out  the  stiil  dear,  though 
cruel,  ungenerous  Montraville,  to  throw  mys-lf  at 
his  feet,  and  entreat  his  compassion  ;  heaven  knows, 
not  fir  myself,  if  I  am  no  longer  beloved,  I  will  not 
be  indebted  to  his  pity  to  redress  my  injuries,  but  I 
would  have  knelt  and  entreated  him  not  to  forsake 

my  poor  unborn *    She  could  say  no  more:  a 

crimson  glow  rushed  over  her  cheeks,  and  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands,  she  sobbed  aloud. 


[  S3] 

Something  like  humanity  was  awakened  in  Bel- 
cour's  breast  by  this  pathetic  speech  :  he  arose  and 
walked  towards  the  window  :  but  the  selfish  passion, 
which  had  taken  possession  of  his  heart  soon  stifled 
these  finer  emotions :  and  he  thought  if  Charlotte 
•was  once  convinced  that  she  had  no  longer  any  de- 
pendence on  Moi-traville,  she  would  more  readily 
throw  herself -to  his  protection.  Determined,  there- 
fore, to  inform  her  of  all  that  happened,  he  again 
resumed  his  seat :  and  finding  she  began  to  be  more 
composed,  enquired  if  she  had  ever  heard  from  Mon- 
traville  since  the  unfortunate  rencontre  in  her  bed- 
chamber 

'  Ah  no,'  suld  she.  *  I  fear  i  shall  never  hear 
from  him  again.' 

*  I  am  greatly  of  your  opinion/  said  Belcour,  '  for 
he  has  been  for  some  time  past  greatly  attached — 3 

At  the  word 4  attached'  a  death  iike  paleness  over- 
spread the  countenance  of  Charlotte,  but  she  appli- 
ed to  some  hartshorn  which  stood  beside  her,  and 
Belcour  proceeded. 

'  He  has  been  for  some  time  past  greatly  attach- 
ed to  one  Miss  Franklin,  a  pleasing,  lively  girl,  with 
a  large  fortune.' 

4  She  may  be  richer,  may  be  handsomer,'  said 
Charlotte,  *  but  cannot  love  him  so  well.  Oh  may 
she  beware  of  his  art,  and  not  trust  him  so  far  as  I 
have  done.' 

*  He  addresses  her  publickly,'  said  he,  *  and  it  is 
rumored  they  were  to  be  married  before  he  sailed 
for  Eustatia,  whither  his  company  is  ordered,' 

4  helnour,'  said  Charlotte,  seizing  his  hand,  and 
gazing  at  him  earnestly,  while  her  pale  lips  trem- 
bled with  convulsive  agony,  *  tell  me,  and  tell  me 
truly,  I  beseech  you,  do  you  think  he  can  be  such  % 
villain  as  to  -narry  another  woman,  and  leave  me  to 
die  with  want  and  misery  in  a  strange  land ! — Tell 
me  what  you  think  :  I  can  bear  it  very  well:  I  will 
not  shrink  trom  the  heaviest  stroke  of  fate  :  I  have 
deserved  my  afflictions,  and  I  will  endeavour  to  bea? 
them  as  1  ought.' 

*  I  fear,'  said  Belcour,  *  he  can  be  that  villain/ 


[  84] 

4  Perhaps/  said  she,  eagerly  interrupting  frim, 
6  perhaps  he  is  married  already  :  come,  let  me  know 
the  worst/  continued  she,  with  an  affected  look  of 
composure,  *  you  need  not  be  afraid,  1  shall  not  send 
the  unfortunate  lady  a  bowl  of  poison-' 

'  Well,  then,  my  dear  girl,'  said  he,  deceived  by 
her  appearance,  *  they  were  married  on  Thursday, 
and  yesterday  morning  they  sailed  for  Kustatia.' 

'  IVIarried — gone — say  you,'  cried  she,  in  a  dis- 
tracted accent,  *  what !  without  a  last  farewell !  with- 
out one  thought  on  my  unhappy  situation  !  Oh  Mon- 
traville,  may  God  forgive  your  perfidy  !  *  She  shriek- 
ed and  Belcour  sprang  forward  just  in  time  to  pre- 
vent her  falling  to  the  floor. 

Alarming  faintings  now  succeeded  each  other  and 
she  was  conveyed  to  bed,  from  whence  she  earnestly 
prayed  she  might  never  more  arise.  Belcour  stayed 
\vith  her  that  night,  ind  in  the  morning  found  her  in 
a.  high  fever.  The  fits  she  had  been  seized  with  had 
greatly  terrified  him :  and  confined  as  she  now  was 
to  a  bed  of  sickness,  she  was  no  longer  an  object  of 
desire  :  it  is  true  for  several  days  he  went  constant- 
ly to  see  her,  but  her  pale,  emaciated  appearance 
disgusted  him  ;  his  visits  became  less  frequent.  He 
forgot  the  solemn  charge  given  him  by  Montraville  ; 
he  even  forgot  the  money  entrusted  to  his  care;  aad, 
(the  burning  blush  of  indignation  and  shame  tinges 
rny  cheek  while  1  write  it,)  this  disgrace  to  human- 
ity apd  manhood  at  length  forgot  even  the  injured 
Charlotte :  and,  attracted  by  the  blooming  health  of 
a  farmer's  daughter,  whpm  he  had  seen  in  his  fre- 
quent excursions  to  the  country,  he  left  the  unhappy 
girl  to  sink  unnoticed  to  the  grave,  a  prey  to  sickness., 
grief  and  penury :  while  he,  having  triumphed  over 
the  virtue  of  the  artless  cottager,  rioted  in  all  the 
intemperance  of  luxury  and  law  less  pleasure. 


CHAP.  XXVIII. 

.A   TRIFLING   RETROSPECT. 

*  BLESS  my  heart '.'  criesmy  young  volatile  read- 
er, *  I  shall  never  have  patience  to  get  through  this 
volume,  there  are  so  many  ahs  !  and  ohs!  so  much 
fainting,  tears  and  distress,  I  am  sick  to  death  of  the 
subject.'  My  dear,  cheerful,  innocent  girl,  for  inno- 
cent I  will  suppose  you  to  be,  or  you  would  acutely 
feel  the  woes  of  Charlotte,  did  conscience  say,  thus 
might  it  have  .been  with  me,  had  not  providence  in- 
terposed to  snatch  me  from  destruction.  Therefore, 
my  lively,  innocent  girl,  I  must  request  your  patience  ; 
I  arn  writing  a  tale  of  truth  ;  I  mean  to  write  it  to 
the  heart ;  but  if  perchance  the  heart  is  rendered 
impenetrable  by  unbounded  prosperity  or  a  conti-  ' 
nuance  in  vice,  I  expect  not  my  tale  to  please,  nay, 
I  even  expert  it  will  be  thrown  by  with  disgust.  But 
softly,  my  gentle  fair  one  ;  I  pray  you  throw  it  not 
aside  till  you  have  perused  the  whole  :  mayhap  you 
may  find  something  therein  to  n  pay  you  tor  the  trou- 
ble.— Methinks  1  see  a  sarcastic  smile  sit  on  your 
countenance. — *  And  what,'  cry  you,  *  does  the  con- 
ceited author  suppose  we  can  glean  from  these  pa- 
ges if  Charlotte  is  held  up  as  an  object  of  terror,  to 
Erevent  us  from,  falling  into  guilty  errors  ?  Does  not 
a  Rue  triumph  in  shame,  and  by  adding  art  to 
feuilt,  obtain  the  affection  of  a  worthy  man,  and  rise 
to  a  station  where  she  is  beheld  with  respect,  and 
cheerfully  received  into  all  companies  ?  What  then 
!.s  the  moral  you  would  inculcate  ?  Would  you  wish 
us  to  think  that  a  deviation  from  virtue,  it  covered 
by  art  and  hypocrisy,  is  not  an  object  of  detestation, 
but  on  the  contrary  shall  raise  us  to  fame  and  hon- 
our ?  while  the  hapless  girl  who  falls  a  victim  to  her 
too  great  sensibility,  shall  be  loaded  with  ignominy 
and  shame  ?•  No,  my  fair  querist,  I  mean  no  such 
thing  Remember  the  endeavours  of  the  wicked  are 
often  suffered  to  prosper,  that  in  the  end  their  fall 
may  be  attetHted  with  more  b!tt<ra:e?; 


[  86] 

^hile  the  cup  of  affliction  is  poured  out  for  wise  anS, 
salutary  ends,  and  they  who  are  compelled  to  drain 
it  even  to  the  bitter  dregs,  often  find  comfort  at  the 
bottom  ;  the  tear  of  penitence  blots  their  offences 
from  the  book  of  fate,  and  they  rise  from  the  heavy, 
painful  trial,  purified  and  fit  for  a  mansion  in  the 
kingdom  of  eternity. 

Yes,  my  young  friends,  the  tear  of  compassion 
shall  fall  for  the  fate  of  Charlotte,  while  the  name 
of  La  Rue  shall  be  detested  and  despised.  For  Char- 
lotte, the  soul  melts  with  sympathy  ;  for  La  Rue,  it 
feels  nothing  but  horror  and  contempt But  per- 
haps your  gay  hearts  would  rather  follow  the  fortu- 
nate Mrs.  Cray  ton  through  the  scenes  ot  pleasure 
and  dissipation  in  which  she  was  engaged,  than  lis- 
ten to  the  complaints  and  miseries  of  Charlotte.  I 
will  for  once  oblige  you  ;  1  will  for  once  follow  her 
to  midnight  revels,  balls,  and  scenes  ot  gaiety,  for 
in  such  she  was  constantly  engaged. 

I  have  said  her  person  was  lovely ;  let  us  add  that 
she  was  surrounded  by  splendour  and  affluence,  and 
she  must  know  but  little  of  the  world  who  can  won- 
der (however  faulty  such  a  woman's  conduct)  at  her 
being  followed  by  the  men.  and  her  company  court- 
ed by  the  women  ;  in  short,  Mrs.  Crayton  was  the 
universal  favourite ;  she  set  the  fashions,  she  was 
toasted  by  all  the  gentlemen,  and  copied  by  all  the 
ladies. 

Colonel  Crayton  was  a  domestic  man.  Could  he 
be  happy  with  such  a  woman  ?  Impossible  !  Re- 
monstrance was  vain  :  he  might  as  well  have  preach- 
ed to  the  winds,  as  endeavour  to  persuade  her  from 
any  action,  however  ridiculous,  on  which  she  had 
set  her  mind  ;  in  short,  after  a  little  ineffectual  strug- 
gle, he  gave  up  the  attempt,  and  left  her  to  follow 
the  bent  of  her  own  inclinations :  what  those  were,  I 
think  the  reader  must  have  seen  enough  of  her  cha- 
racter to  form  a  just  idea-  Among  the  number  who 
paid  the m  devotions  at  her  shrine,  she  singled  one,  & 
young  Ensign  of  mean  birth,  indifferent  education, 
and  weak  inttllects.  How  such  a  man  came  into  tht 
y,  we  hardly  know  *o  account  for,  i 


Afterwards  rose  to  posts  of  honour,  is  likewise  strange' 
and  wonderful.  But  fortune  is  blind,  and  so  are  those 
too  frequently  who  have  the  power  of  dispensing  her 
favours  ;  else  why  do  we  see  fools  and  knaves  at  the 
very  t')p  of  the  wheel,  wnile  patient  taerit  sinks  to 
the  extreme  of  the  opposite  abyss  ?  But  we  may 
for  11  a  thousand  conjectures  on  this  subject,  and  yet 
never  hit  on  the  right.  Let  us  therefore  endeavour 
to  deserve  her  smiles,  and  whether  we  succeed  or 
not,  we  shall  feel  more  innate  satisfaction  than  thou- 
sands of  those  who  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  her  favour 
unworthily.  But  to  return  to  Mrs.  Crayton..  .this 
young  ;nan,  whom  I  shall  distinguish  by  the  name 
of  Cory  don,  was  the  reigning  favourite  of  her  heart. 
He  escorted. her  to  the  play,  dancrd  with  her  at  eve- 
ry ball,  and  when  indisposition  prevented  her  going 
out,  it  was  he  alone  who  was  permitted  to  chter  the 
gloomy  solitude  to  which  she  was  obliged  to  con- 
fine herself — Did  she  ever  think  of  poor  Char- 
lotte ?....If  she  did  my  dear  Miss,  it  was  only  to 
la  i£h  at  the  poor  girl's  want  of  spirit  in  consenting 
to  be  moped  up  in  the  country,  while  Montraville 
was  enjoying  all  the  pleasures  of  a  gay,  dissipated 
city.  When  she  heard  of  his  marriage,  she  smiling- 
ly said,  *  so  there's  an  end  of  Madam  Charlotte's 
hopes-  I  wonder  who  will  take  her  now,  or  what 
will  become  of  the  little  affected  prude  ' 

But  as  you  have  led  to  the  subject,  1  think  we  may 
as  well  retnru  to  the  distressed  Charlotte,  and  not, 
like  the  unfeeling  Mrs.  Crayton,  shut  our  hearts  to 
the  call  of  humanity. 


CHAP.  XXIX. 

WE  GO  FORWARD  AGAIK, 

THE  strength  of  Charlotte's  constitution  combat- 
ed against  her  disorder,  and  she  began  slowly  ro 
recover,  though  she  still  laboured  under  violent  de- 
gression of  spirits.  How  must  that  depression  b£' 


[  88]   _ 

increased,  when,  upon  examining  her  little  store, 
she  found  herself  reduced  to  one  solitary  guinea, 
and  that  during  her  illness  the  attendance  of  an 
apothecary  and  nurse,  together  with  many  other 
unavoidable  expences,  had  involved  her  in  debt, 
from  which  she  saw  no  method  of  extricating  her- 
self. As  to  the  faint  hope  which  she  had  entertain- 
ed of  hearing  from  and  being  relieved  by  her  parents, 
it  now  entirely  forsook  her,  for  it  was  above  four 
months  since  her  letter  was  dispatched,  and  she  had 
received  no  answer.  She  therefore  imagined  that 
her  conduct  had  entirely  alienated  their  affection 
from  her,  or  broken  their  hearts,  and  she  must  never 
more  hope  to  receive  their  blessing. 

Never  did  any  hnman  being  wish  for  death  with 
greater  fervency  nor  with  a  juster  cause  ;  yet  she 
Ijad  too  just  a  sense  of  the  duties  of  the  Christian 
religion  to  put  a  period  to  her  own  existence.  *  I 
have  but  to  be  patient  a  little  longer,'  she  would  cry* 
*  and  nature,  fatigued  and  fainting,  will  throw  off 
this  heavy  load  of  mortality,  and  I  shall  be  relieved 
from  all  my  sufferings,* 

It  was  one  cold  stormy  day  in  the  latter  end  of 
December,  as  Charlotte  sat  by  a  handful  of  fire,  tha 
low  state  of  her  finances  not  allowing  her  to  replen- 
ish her  stock  of  fuel,  and  prudence  teaching  her 
to  be  careful  of  what  she  had,  when  she  was  sur- 
prised by  the  entrance  of  the  farmer's  wife,  wno* 
without  much  ceremony,  seated  herself  and  began 
this  curious  harangue, 

*  I'm  come  to  see  if  as  how  you  can  pay  your 
rent,  because  as  how  we  hear  Captain  Montable  is 
gone  away,  and  it's  fifty  to  one  if  he  ba'ant  killed 
afore  he  comes  back  again  ;  and  then  Miss,  or 
Ma'am,  or  whatever  you  may  be,  as  1  was  saying  to 
my  husband,  where  arc  we  to  look  for  our  money  ?' 

This  was  a  stroke  altogether  unexpected  by  Char- 
lotte. She  knew  so  little  of  the  ways  of  the  world 
that  she  had  never  bestowed  a  thought  on  the  pay- 
ment of  the  rent  of  the  house;  she  knew  indeed 
that  she  owed  a  good  deal,  but  this  was  never  reck- 
Sned  among  the  others ;  sire  was  thunderstruck  ^— 


C  8*  ] 

sae  hardly  knew  what  answer  to  make,  yet  it  was 
absolutely  necessary  that  she  should  say  something  ; 
and  judging  of  the  gentleness  of  every  female  dis 
position  by  her  own,  she  though*-  the  best  way  to  in- 
terest the  woman  in  her  favour  would  be  to  tell  her 
candidly  to  what  a  situation  she  was  reduced,  and 
what  little  probability  there  was  of  her  ever  paying 
any  body. 

Alas!  poor  Charlotte,  how  confined  was  her 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  or  she  would  have 
been  convinced  that  the  only  way  to  insure  thefriend- 
ship  and  assistance  of  your  surrounding  acquaint- 
ance is  to  convince  them  you  do  not  require  it,  for 
•when  once  the  petrifying  aspect  of  distress  and  pen- 
ury appears,  whose  qualities,  like  Medusa's  head 
can  change  to  stone  all  that  look  upon  it ;  when  once 
this  gorgon  claims  acquaintance  with  us,  the  phan- 
tom of  friendship,  that  before  courted  our  notice, 
•will  vanish  into  unsubstantial  air,  and  the  whole 
•world  before  us  appear  a  barren  waste.  Pardon  me, 
ye  dear  spirits  of  benevolence,  whose  benign  smiles 
and  cheerful-giving  hand  has  strewed  sweet  flowers 
OH  many  a  thorny  path  through  which  my  wayward 
iate  forced  me  to  pass  ;  think  not,  that  in  condemn- 
ing the  unfeeling  texture  of  the  human  heart,  I  for- 
get the  spring  from  whence  flow  all  the  comforts  I 
enjoy :  oh  no  !  I  look  up  to  you  as  to  bright  con- 
stellations, gathering  new  splendours  from  the  sur- 
rounding darkness.  But  ah!  while  I  adore  the  be- 
uignant rays  that  cheered  ai  d  illuminated  my  heart, 
1  mourn  that  their  influence  cannot  extend  to  all 
the  sons  and  daughters  of  affliction. 

'  Indeed,  Madam,'  said  poor  Charlotte,  in  a  trem- 
ulous accent,  *  I  am  at  a  loss  what  to  do  ;  Montra- 
ville  placed  me  here,  and  promised  to  defray  all  my 
expences:  but  he  has  forgotten  his  promise,  he  has 
forsaken  me  ;  and  I  have  no  friend  who  has  either 
power  or  will  to  relieve  me.  Let  me  hope»  as  you 
see  my  unhappy  situation,  your  charity — ' 

*  Charity  !'  cried  the  woman  impatiently,  inter- 
rupting her,  *  charity  indeed  ;  why  Mistress,  cliari 
ty  begins  at  home,  and  I  have  seven  ctuldrea  3$ 
H2 


.  t  so  1 

-home,  %one*t,  lawful  children,  ami  it  is  my  cutiy  to 
keep  them  ;  and  do  you  think  I  will  give  away  my 
property  to  a  nasty,  impudent  hussy,  to  maintain  her 
and  her  bastard'?  a  I  was  saying  to  my  husband 
the  other  day,  what  will  this  world  come  to  ?  honest 
•women  are  nothing  now-a-days ;  while  the  had;  th  gs 
are  set  up  for  fine  ladies,  and  look  upon  us  no  iru-.re 
than  the  dirt  they  walk  upon  ;  but  let  we  teli  you, 
my  fine  spoken  Ma'am,  1  must  have  my  money:  ao 
seeing  as  how  you  can't  pay  it,  why  you  must  troop, 
and  leave  all  your  girncracks  and  fal  der  rals  behind 
you.  1  don't  ask  you  for  no  more  nor  my  right,  and 
nobody  shall  dare  for  to  go  for  to  hinder  me  from  it.* 

*  Oh  heavens,'  cried  Charlotte,  clasping  her  hands, 

*  what  will  become  of  me  '? 

*  Come  on  ye,*  retorted  the  unfeeling  wretch : 

*  why  go  to  the  barracks  and  work  for  a  morsel  of 
bread  ;  wash  and  mend  the  soldier's  clothe?,  an  cock 
their  victuals,  and  not  expect  to  live  in  idleness  on 
honest  people's  means.    Oh  I  wish  I  could  see  the 
day  when  all  such  cattle  were  obliged  to  work  hard 
and  eat  little  :  it's  only  what  they  deserve.' 

4  Father  of  mercy/  cried  Charlotte,  *  1  acknowl- 
edge thy  correction  just ;  but  prepare  me,  I  be- 
seech thee,  for  the  portion  of 'misery  thou  mayesfc 
please  to  lay  upon  me.' 

4  Well,'  said  the  woman,  *  1  shall  go  and  tell  my 
husband  as  how  you  can't  pay ;  and  so,  d'ye  see, 
Ma'am,  get  ready  to  be  packing  away  this  very 
night,  for  you  should  nv>t  stay  another  night  in  this 
house,  though  I  was  sure  yoti  would  lay  in  the 
street.' 

Charlotte  bowed  her  head  in  silence  ;  but  the  an- 
guish of  her  heart  was  too  great  to  permit  her  t.o 
irrtjculate  a  single  word. 


CHAP.  XXX. 

And  what  ia  friendship  but  a  namo, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep, 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  and  fame, 

But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep. 

WHEN  Charlotte  was  left  to  herself,  she  began 
to  think  what  course  she  must  take,  or  to  whom  she 
could  apply,  to  prevent  her  perishing  for  want,  or 
perhaps  that  very  night  falling  a  victim  to  the  in- 
clemency of  the  season  After  many  perplexed 
thoughts,  she  at  last  determined  to  set  out  for  New- 
York,  and  enquire  out  Mrs.  Cray  ton,  from  whom 
she  had  no  boubt  but  she  would  obtain  immediate 
relief  as  soon  as  her  distress  was  made  known  :  she 
had  no  sooner  formed  this  resolution  than  she  resolv- 
ed immediately  to  put  it  in  execution  ;  she  there- 
fore wrote  the  following  little  MHetto  Mrs.  Cray  ton, 
thinking  if  she  should  have  company  with  her,  it 
would  be  better  to  send  it  than  to  requebt  to  see  he; 


To  MRS.  €RAYTON. 


5  WHEN  we  left  our  native  land,  that  dear  happy 
land  which  now  contains  all  that  isdear  to  the  wretch- 
ed Charlotte,  our  prospects  were  the  same  :  we 
both,  pardon  me,Madarn,if  I  say,  we  both  too  easi- 
ly followed  the  impulse  of  o»ir  treacherous  hearts, 
and  trusted  our  happiness  on  a  tempestuous  ocean, 
«\vhere  mine  has  been  wrecked  and  lost  forever: 
you  have  been  more  fortunate — you  are  united  to 
a  man  of  honour  and  humanity- — united  by  the  most 
sacred  ties,  respected,  esteemed  and  admired,  and 
surrounded  by  innumerable  blessings,  of  which  I  am 
Bereaved,  enjoying  those  pleasures  which  have  fled 
;  ;om  never  to  return,  4Jas !  gfijrow  mid  deep 


yegrct  have  taken  their  place  Behold  me,  Mad- 
am, a  poor  forsaken  wanderer,  who  has  not  where 
to  lay  her  weary  head,  \vherewith  to  supply  the 
\vants  of  nature,  or  to  shield  her  from  the  inclemen- 
cy of  the  weather.  To  you  1  sue,  to  you  I  look  for 
pity  and  relief  I  ask  not  to  be  received  as  an  inti- 
mate or  an  tqual  :  only  for  charity's  sweet  sake  re- 
ceive me  into  your  hospitable  mansion,  allot  me  the 
meanest  apartment  in  it,  and  let  me  breath  out  my 
soul  in  prayers  for  your  happiness:  1  cannot,  1  feel 
1  cannot  long  bear  up  under  the  accumulated  woes 
that  pour  in  upon  me  ;  but  oh  !  my  dear  Madam, 
for  the  love  ot  heaven  suffer  me  not  to  expire  in  the 
street :  and  when  I  am  at  peace,  as  soon  1  shall  be, 
extend  your  compassion  to  my  helpless  offspring, 
should  it  please  heaven  that  it  should  survive  its  un- 
happy mother.  A  gleam  of  joy  breaks  in  on  my 
benighted  soul,  while  1  reflect  that  you  cannot,  will 
Dot  refuse  your  protection  to  the  heart-broken 

CHARLOTTE' 

When  Charlotte  had  finished  this  letter,  lute  as  It 
%vas  in  the  afternoon,  and  thr.ugh  the  snow  began  to 
fall  very  fast,  she  tied  up  a  few  necessary s  which  she 
had  prepared  against  her  expected  confinement., 
and  terrified  lest  she  should  again  be  exposed  to  the 
insults  ot  her  barbarous  landlady,  more  dreadful 
to  her  wounded  spirit  than  eithe'r  storm  or,  dark- 
ness, she  set  forward  icr  New- York. 

It  may  be  asked  by  those,  who,  in  a  work  of  this 
kind,  love  to  cavil  at  every  trifling  omission,  wheth- 
er uharoltte  did  not  possess  any  valuable  of  which 
she  could  have  disposed,  and  by  that  means  have 
Supported  herself  till  Mrs.  Beauchamp's  return, 
when  she  would  have  been  certain  of  receiving  eve- 
ry tender  attention  which  compassion  and  friend- 
ship could  dictate  ;  but  let  me  entreat  these  uise, 
penetrating  gentlemen  to  reflect,  that  when  Char- 
lotte left  England,  it  was  in  such  haste  that  there 
was  no  time  to  purchase  any  thing  more  than  what 
•was  wanted  for  immediate  use  on  the  voyage,  and 
^fter  her  arrival  at  New- York,  MontraviUe's  afiecr 


C  S3] 

ti6n  soon  began  to  decline,  so  that  her  whole  ward- 
robe consisting  of  only  necessaries,  and  as  to  baubles, 
T*ith  which  fond  lovers  often  load  their  mistresses, 
site  possessed  not  owe,  except  a  plain  gold  locket, 
of  small  value,  which  contained  a  lock  of  her  mothr 
er's  hair,  and  which  the  greatest  extremity  of  •want 
could  not  force  her  to  part  with. 

I  hope,  Sir,  your  prejudices  are  now  removed  in 
regard  to  the  probability  of  my  story  ?  Oh,  they  ave. 
Well  then,  with  your  leave,  I  will  proceed. 

The  distance  from  the  house  which  our  suffering 
heroine  occupied,  to  New-York,  was  not  very  great, 
yet  the  snow  fell  so  fast,  and  the  cold  so  intense, 
that  being  unable  from  her  situation  to  walk  quick, 
she  found  herself  almost  sinking  with  cold  and  fa- 
tigue before  she  reached  the  town  ;  her  garments, 
which  were  merely  suited  to  the  summer  season, 
being  an  undress  robe  of  plain  white  muslin,  were 
wet  through,  and  a  thin  black  cloak  and  bonnet,  ve- 
ry improper  habiliments  for  such  a  climate,  but 
jioorly  defended  her  from  the  cold.  In  this  situar 
ticm  she  readied  the  city,  and  enquired  of  a  foot  sol- 
dier whom  she  met,  the  way  to  Col.  Crayton's. 

4  Bless  you,  my  sweet  lady,  said  the  soldier,  with 
a.  voice  and  look  of  compassion,  '  I  will  show  you  the 
way  with  all  my  heart ;  but  if  you  are  going  to  make 
a  petition  to  Madam  Cray  ton,  it  is  all  to  no  purpose 
I  assure  you  :  if  you  please  I  will  conduct  you  to  Mr. 
Franklin's  ;  though  Miss  Julia  is  married  and  gone 
BOW,  yet  the  old  gentleman  is  very  good.* 

*  Julia  Franklin,'  said  Charlotte ;  '  is  she  not  mai;~ 
tied  to  Montraville  ?' 

*  Yes,'  replied  the  soldier,  *  and  may  God  bless 
them,  for  a  better  officer  never  lived,  he  is  so  good 
to  us  all ;  and  as  to  Miss  Julia,  all  the  poor  folks  al; 
most  worshipped  her ' 

*  Gracious  heaven  !'  cried  Charlotte,,  '  is  Montra-, 
ville  then  unjust  to  none  but  roe  ?' 

The  soldier  now  shewed  her  Col.  Crayton's  door 
2nd  with  a. beating  heart  sjie  knocked  for  admis- 


'          [  94  ] 
CHAP.  XXXI. 

SUBJECT   CONTINUED. 

WHEN  the  door  was  opened,  Charlotte,  in  a  voice 
rendered  scarcely  articulate,  through  cold  and  the 
extreme  agitation  of  her  mind,  demanded  -whether 
Mrs.  Crayton  was  at  home  The  servant  hesitated  : 
he  knew  that  his  lady  was  engaged  at  a  game  of  pic- 
quet  with  her  dear  Corydon,  nor  could  he  thiirk  she 
would  like  to  be  disturbed  by  a  person  whose  ap- 
pearance spoke  her  of  so  little  consequence  as  Char- 
lotte ;  yet  there  was  something  in  her  countenance 
that  rather  interested  him  in  her  favour,  and  he  said 
his  lady  was  engaged,  but  if  she  had  any  particular 
message  he  would  deliver  it. 

*  Take  up  this  letter,'  said  Charlotte ;  *  tell  her 
the  unhappy  writer  ot  it  waits  in  her  hall  for  an  an- 
swer.' 

Tire  tremulous  accent,  the  tearful  eye,  must  have 
moved  any  heart  not  composed  of  adamant  The 
man  took  the  letter  from  the  poor  suppliant,  i.nd 
hastily  ascended  the  stair-case. 

*  A  letter.  Madam/  snid  he,  presenting  it  to  his 
lady  :  an  immediate  answer  is  required.'  ° 

Mrs,  Crayton  glanced  her  eye  carelessly  over  the 
contents.  *  What  stuff  is  this  !'  cried  she  haughtily  ; 
*  have  I  not  told  you  a  thousand  times  that  I  \viVi  not 
be  plagued  with  beggars,  and  petitions  from  people 
one  knows  nothing  about  ?  Go  tell  the  woman  I 
can't  do  any  thing  in  it-  I'm  sorrj ,  but  one  can't  re- 
lieve every  body/ 

The  man  bowed,  and  heavily  returned  with  this 
chilling  message-  to  Charlotte. 

*  Surely,*  said  she,  *  Mrs,  Crayton  has  not  read 
my  letter-  Go,  my  good  friend,  pray  go  back  to  her; 
tell  her  it  is  Charlotte  Temple  who  requests  beneath 
her  hospitable  roof  to  find  shelter  from   the  incle- 
mency of  the  season.* 

*  Prithee,  don't  plague  me,  man,'  cried  Mrs.  Cray- 
tpn  impatiently,  as  the  servant  advanced  something 


t  3$  1 

in  behalf  of  the  unhappy  girl.    'I  tell  you  I    don't 
know  her.' 

4  Not  know  me!'  cried  Charlotte,  rushing  into  the 
room,  (for  she  had  folio vved  the  man  up  stairs)  not 
know  me!  not  remember  the  rained  Charlotte  Tern* 
pie,  who,  but  for  you,  perhaps  might  still  have  been 
innocent,  still  have  been  happy.  Oh  !  La  Rue,  this 
is  bevond  every  thing  I  could  have  believed  possible.' 

*  Upon  ray  honour,  Mis:>/  replied  the  unfeeling 
woman  with  the  utmost  effrontery,  *  this  is  a  most 
unaccountable  address  ;  it  is  beyond  mv  comprehen- 
sion.   John,  continued  she,  turning  to  the  servant, 
*  the  voung  woman  is  certainly  out  of  her  senses  ;  do 
pray  take  her  away,  she  terrifies  me  to  death.' 

*  Oh  God,'  cried  Charlotte,  clasping  her  hands  in 
an  agony,  'this  is  too  much;  what  will  become  of 
me?  but  I  will   not  leave  you:  here  on  my  knees  I 
conjure  you  to  save  :ne  from  perishing  in  the  streets : 
if  you  really  have  forgotten  me,  oh  for  charity's  sweet 
sake  this  night  let  rne'be  sheltered  from  the  winters 
piercing  cold.' 

Tne  kneeling  figure  of  Charlotte  in  her  affecting 
situation  might  have  moved  the  heart  of  a  stoic  to 
compassion  ;  but  Mrs.  Crayton  remained  inflexible.. 
In  vain  did  Charlotte  recount  the  ti.nethey  had  known 
each  other  at  Chichester,  in  vain  mention  their  be- 
ing in  the  same  ship,  in  vain  were  the  names  of  Mon- 
traville  and  Belcour  mentioned  ivlr».  Crayton  could 
only  say  she  was  sorry  for  her  imprudence,  but  could 
not  think  of  having  her  own  reputation  endangered 
by  encouraging  a  woman  of. that  kind  in  her  house, 
besides  she  did  not  know  what  trouble  and  expence 
sh<  -night  bring  upon  her  husband  by  giving  shelter 
to  a  woman  in  her  situation. 

k  I  can^at  least  die  here,'  said  Charlotte,  '  I  feel  I 
cannot  long  survive  this  dreadful  conflict  Father 
of  mercy,  here  let  me  finish  mv  existence-'  Her 
agonizing  sensations  overpowered  her,  and  she  fell 
senseless  on  the  floor.' 

4  Take  her  away,'  said  Mrs.  Crayton.  '  shr  will 
really  frighten  me  into  hysterics;  take  her  away  I 
f&y  this  instant,- 


[  96  1 

c  And  where  must  I  take  the  poor  creatflre  P  said 
the  servant  with  a  voice  and  a  look  of  compassion. 

*  Any  where/  cried  sbe  hastily,  *  only  don't  let 
fine  ever  see  her  again.  I  declare  she  has  flurried 
me  so  I  shan't  be  rayvelf  again  this  fortnight.* 

John,  assisted  by  his  fellow  servant,  'raised  and 
carried  her  down  stairs,  *  Poor  soul,'  said  he,  *  you 
shall  not  layMn  the  street  this  night.  I  have  a  bed, 
and  a  poor  little  hovel,  where  my  wife  and  her  litile 
ones  rest  them,  but  they  shall  watch  to-night,  and 
you  shall  be  sheltered  from  danger.'  They  placed 
her  in  a  chair;  and  the  benevolent  man,  assisted  by 
his  comrades,  carried  her  te  the  place  where  his 
wife  and  children  lived.  A  surgeon  was  sent  for; 
he  hied  h€.-%  she  gave  signs  of  returning  life,  and  ber 
fare  the  dawn,  gave  birth  to  a  female  infant.  After 
this  event  she  lay  fcr  some  hours  in  a  kind  of  stupor, 
ami  if  at  any  time  she  spoke,  it  was  with  a  quickness 
and  incoherence  that  plainly  evinced  the  total  depi> 
vituoa  gf  her  reason. 


CHAP.  XXXII. 

REASONS   WHY   AND    WHEREFORE. 

THE  reader  of  sensibility  may  perhaps  be 
i5n.-'<l  to  find  Mrs.  Cray  ton  could  so  positively  deny 
any  knowledge  of  Charlotte  ;  it  is  therefore  but  just 
t'hat  her  conduct  should  in  some  measure  be  account- 
ed for.  She  had  ever  been  fully  sensible  of  the  su- 
periority of  Charlotte's  sense  and  virtue  ;  she  was 
conscious  that  she  had  never  swerved  from  rectitude,, 
had  it  not  been  for  her  bad  precepts  and  worse  ex- 
ample. These  were  things  as  yet  unknown  to  her 
husband,  and  she  wished  not  to  have  that  part  of  her 
conduct  exposed  to  him,  as  she  had  great  reason  to 
fear  she  had  already  lost  considerable  part  of  that 
power  she  once  maintained  over  him.  She  trembled 
~v!iile  Charlotte  was  in  the  house,  lest  the  Colonel 
return  :  sire  perfecQy  well  reoverubered  hoy.- 


[  97] 

niuch  he  seemed  interested  in  her  favour  whilst  oft 
their  passage  from  England,  and  made  no  «..ubt, 
but,  should  lie  see  her  in  her  present  distress,  he 
would  offer  an  ansylum,  and  protect  her  to  the  ut- 
most of  his  power.  In  that  case  she  feared  the  un- 
guarded nature  of  Charlotte  might  discover  to  the. 
Colonel  the  part  she  had  taken  in  the  unhappy  girl's 
elopement,  and  she  well  knew  the  contrast  between 
her  own  and  Charlotte's  conduct  would  make  the 
former  appear  in  no  very  respectable  light.  Had  she 
reflected  properly,  she  would  have  afforded  the  poor 
girl  protection  ;  and  by  enjoining  her  silence,  ensu- 
red it  by  acts  of  repeated  kindness  ;  but  vice  in  ge- 
neral blinds  its  votaries,  and  they  discover  their  real 
characters  to  the  world  when  they  are  most  studious 
to  preserve  appearance*, 

Just  so  it  happened  with  Mrs  Crayton  :  her  ser- 
vants made  no  scruple  of  mentioning  the  cruel  con* 
duct  of  their  lady  to  a  poor  distressed  lun:r:ic  who 
claimed  her  protection  ;  every  one  joined  in  repro- 
-bating  her  inhumanity  ;  nay,  even  Cory  don  thought 
she  might  at  least  have  ordered  her  to  be  taken  care 
of,  but  he  dared  not  even  hint  it  to  her,  for  he  lived 
in  her  smiles,  and  drew  from  her  lavish  fondness 
large  sums  to  support  an  extravagance  to  which  the 
state  of  his  own  finances  was  very  inadequate :  it 
cannot  therefore  be  supposed  that  he  wished  Mrs. 
Crayton  to  be  very  liberal  in  her  bounty  to  the  af- 
ffccted  suppliant ;  yet  vice  had  not  so  entirely  sear- 
e<l  over  his  heart,  but  the  sorrows  of  Charlotte  could 
find  a  vulnerable  part. 

Charlotte  had  been  three  days  with  her  humane 
preservers,  but  she  was  totally  insensible  of  every 
thing :  she  raved  incessantly  for  Montraville  and 
her  father  ;  she  was  not  conscious  of  being  a  mother  ; 
nor  took  the  least  notice*  of  her  child  except  to  ask 
whose  it  was,  and  why  it  was  not  carried  to  its  pa- 
ients. 

4  Oh/  said  she  one  day,  starting  up  on  hearing  the 
infant  cry,  '  why,  why  will  you  keep  that  child  here  ? 
I  am  sure  you  would  not  if  yon  knew  how  hard  it 
was  for  a  mother  to  be  parted  from  her  infant :  it  is 


t  100  •] 

burning  head  of  Charlotte  on  her  own  bosom  ;  and 
folding  her  arms  about  her  wept  over  her  in  silence. 
*  Oh,  said  Charlotte,  *  you  are  very  good  to  weep 
thus  for  me  :  it  is  a  long  time  since  t  shed  a  tear  for 
myself ;  my  head  and  ht-.art  are  both  on  fire,  but 

these  tears  of  yours  seem  to  cool  and  refresh  it. - 

Oh  now  I  remember  you  said  you  would  send  a  let- 
ter to  my  poor  father :  do  you  think  he  ever  rec"ei- 
ved  it  ?  or  perhaps  you  have  brought  me  an  answer ; 
•why  do  you  not  speak,  Madam  ?  Does  ht  say  I  may 
go  home  ?  Well  he  is  very  good,  1  shall  so*n  be 
ready 

She  then  made  an  effort  to  get  out  of  bed;  but 
being  prevented,  her  frenzy  again  returned,  and  she 
raved  with  the  greatest  wildness  and  incoherence. 
Mrs.  Beauchamp  finding  it  wa^  impossible  for  her 
to  be  removed,  contented  herself  with  ordering  the 
apartment  to  be  made  corn'ot  tabl  -,  and  procuring  a 
proper  nurae  for  both  mother  and  child  ;  and  hav- 
ing learnt  the  particulars  of  Charlotte's  fruitless  ap- 
plication to  Mrs-  Crayton  from  honest  John,  she 
amply  rewaixled  him  for  his  benevolence,  and  re- 
turned home  with  a  heart  oppressed  with  many 
painful  sensations,  but  yet  rendered  easy  by  the  re- 
flection that  she  had  performed  her  duty  towards  a 
distressed  fellow  creature 

Early  the  next  morning  she  again  visited  Char- 
lotte, and  found  her  tolerably  composed ;  she  called 
her  by  name,  thanked  her  lor  her  goodness,  and 
•when  her  child  was  brought  to  her,  pressed  it  in  her 
arms,  wept  over  it,  and  called  it  the  offspring  of  dis- 
obedience. Mrs.  Beauchamp  was  delighted  to  see 
her  so  much  amended,  and  began  to  hope  she  might 
recover,  and,  spite  of  her  former  errors,  become  a 
useful  and  respectable  n  ember  of  society  ;  but  the 
arrival  of  the  doctor  put  an  end  to  these  delusive 
Ijopes  ;  he  said  nature  was  making  her  last  effort, 
and  a  few  hours  would  most  probably  consign  the 
unhapfpy  girl  to  her  kindred  dust. 

Being  asked  how  she  found  herself,  she  replied— 
•Why  better,  much  better,  doctor.  I  hope  now  I 
have  but  little,  mo.ve  to  suffer.  1  had  last  night  a  few 


[  loi  3 

li-curs  sleep,  and  when  I  awoke  recovered  the  fuii 
pov  er  of  recollection.  I  am  quite  sensible  of  my 
weakness  ;  I  feel  I  have  but  little  longer  to  combat 
inth  the  shafts  of  affliction.  I  have  a  humble  con- 
fidence in  the  mercy  of  him  who  died  to  save  the 
•world,  and  trust  that  my  sufferings  in  this  state  of 
mortality,  joined  to  my  unfeigned  repentance, 
through  his  mercy,  have  blotted  my  offences  from 
the  sight  of  my  offended  maker,  1*  have  but  one 
care — my  poor  infant !  Father  of  mercy/  continued 
she,  raising  her  eyes,  *  of  thy  infinite  goodness, 
grant  that  the  sins  of  the  parent  be  not  visiud  en- 
tile unoffending  child  :  May  those  who  taught  me 
to  despise  the  laws  be  forgiven  ;  lay  not  my  often- 
ces  to  their  charge,  1  beseech  thee  ;  and  oh  !  show- 
er the  choicest  of  thy  blessings  on  those  whose  pity 
has  soothed  the  afflicted  heart,  and  made  easy  even 
the  bed  ct  pain  and  sickness.' 
^  She  was  exhausted  by  thisferevnt  address  to  the 
throne  ot  mtrcy,  and  though  her  Jips  stil)  moved  her 
ice  became  inarticulate  ;  she  lay  for  some  time 
it  were  in  a  doze,  and  then  recovering,  faintly 
Mrs.  Beauchamp's  hand,  and  requested  a 
;;  might  be  sent  for. 

On  hi-s  arrival  she  joined  fervently  in  the  pious 
omce,  ti\  quently  mentioning  her  ingratitude  to  her 
parents,  as  what  lay  most  heavy  a.t  her  heart  When 
£?he  had  performed  the  last  solemn  duty,  and  was 
preparing  to  lie  down,  a  little  bustel  on  the  outside 
dcor  occasioned  Mrs  Beauchamp  to  open  it  and 
enquire  the  cause-  A  man  in  appearance  about 
forty,  presented  himself  and  ask<>d  for  Mrs.  Beau- 
charnp. 

*  That  is  my  name,  Sir/  said  she. 

*  Oh  thei\my  dear  Madam/   cried  he,  *  tell  me 
where  I  may  find  my  poor,   ruiued,  but  repentant 
child-3 

Mrs.  Beauchamp  was  surprisec  I  ard  affected  ;  she 
kmw  not -what  to  say  :  she  fores  aw   the  agony  this 
interview  would  occasion  Mr.  Temple,  who  had  just 
arrived  in  search  of  his  Charlotte ,  and  yet  wassensi- 
*  2 


t  102  ] 

ble  that  the  pardon  and  blessing  of  her  father  would 
soften  even  the  agonies  of  death  to  the  daughter. 

She  hesitated.  *  Tell  me,  Madam,'  cried  he 
wildly,  *  tell  me,  I  beseech  thee.  does  she  live  ?  shall 
I  see  my  darling  once  again  ?  Perhaps  she  is  in  this 
house.  Lead,  lead  me  to  her,  that  I  may  bless  her, 
.and  then  lie  down  and  die.' 

The  ardent  manner  in  which  he  uttered  these 
words  occasioned  him  to  raise  his  voice.  It  caught 
the  ear  of  Chariot >e ;  she  knew  the  beloved  sound  ; 
and  uttering  a  loud  shriek,  she  sprang  forward  as 
Mr.  Temple  entered  the  room.  '  My  adored  father.' 
My  long  lost  child/  Nature  could  support  no  more, 
and  they  both  sunk  lifeless  into  the  arms  of  the  at- 
tendants. 

Charlotte  was  again  put  into  bed,  and  a  few  mo- 
inents  restored  Mr.  Temple  ;  but  to  describe  the 
agony  of  his  sufferings  is  past  the  power  of  any  one, 
who,  though  they  may  readily  conceive,  cannot  de- 
lineate the  dreadful  scene.  Every  eye  gave  testi- 
mony of  what  each  heart  felt — but  ail  were  silent. 

When  Charlotte  recovered,  she  found  herself  sup- 
ported in  her  father's  arms.  She  cast  on  him  a  most 
expressive  look,  but  was  unable  to  speak.  A  revi- 
ving cordial  was  administered.  She  then  asked,  in 
a  low  voice,  for  her  child  ;  it  was  brought  to  her  ; 
she  put  it  in  her  father's  arms.  *  Protect  her,'  said 
she,  •  and  bless  your  dying———" 

Unable  to  finish  the  sentence,  she  sunk  back  on 
her  pillow :  her  countenance  was  serenely  compo- 
sed ;  she  regarded  her  father  as  he  pressed  the  in- 
fant to  his  breast  with  a  steadfast  look ;  a  sudden 
beam  of  joy  passed  across  her  languid  features,  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  heaven— and  thea  closed  them 


[  103  j 
CHAP  XXXlt. 

RETRIBUTION. 

IN  the  meantime  Montraville  having  received  co- 
ders to  return  to  New-York,  arrived,  and  having  still 
SOTTIC  remains  of  compassionate  tenderness  for  the 
woman  whom  he  regarded  as  brought  to  shame  by 
himself,  he  went  out  in  search  of  BelCour,  to  enquire 
whether  she  was  safe,  and  whether  the  child  lived. 
He  found  him  immersed  in  dissipation,  and  could 
gain  no  other  intelligence  than  that  Charlotte  had 
left  him,  and  that  he  knew  not  what  was  become  of 
her. 

*  I  cannot  believe  it  possible,  that  a  mind  once  sb 
pure  as  Charlotte  Temple's,  should  so  suddenly  be- 
come the  mansion  of  vice.  Beware,  Belcour,*  con- 
tinued he,  *  beware,  if  you  have  dared  to  behave  ei- 
ther unjust  or  dishonourably  to  that  p«or  girl,  your 
life  shall  pay  the  forfeit ;  I  will  revenge  her  cause.' 

He  immediately  went  into  the  country,  to  the  house 
where  he  had  left  Charlotte  It  wt-s  desolate.  After 
much  enquiry  he  at  length  found  the  servant  girl, 
Ti-he  had  lived  with  her.  From  her  he  learnt  the 
mwery  Charlotte  had  endured  from  the  complicated 
evils  of  illness,  poverty  and  a  broken  heart,  and  that 
she  had  set  out  an  foot  for  New-York,  on  a  cold  n  in* 
ter's  evening ;  but  she  could  inform  him  no  further.' 

Tortured  almost  to  madness  by  this  shocking  ac- 
count he  returned  to  the  city,  but  before  he  reach- 
ed it,  the  evening  was  drawing  to  a  close.  In  enter- 
ing the  town  he  was  obliged  to  pass  several  little 
huts,  the  residence  of  poor  women  who  supported 
themselves,  by  washing  the  clothes  of  the  officers 
and  soldiers  It  was  nearly  dark  ;  lie  he:mi  twin  v 
neighbor  ring  steeple  a  solemn  to!!  that  ccetried  to 
say  tierce  poor  mortal  was  going  to  thrir  last  man- 
^ion  :  the  sound  struck  on  the  heart  of  Mofttraville, 
aTHA  he  involuntarily  stopped,  when,  from  one  of  the 
houses  he  s**w  the  appearance  of  a  funeral  Almost , 
•unknowing  >yhfg  he  did*  he  followed  at  a  small  &•• 


[  104] 

and  as  they  let  the  coffin  into  the  grave,  lie 
enquired  of  a  sudier  who  stood  by,  and  had  just 
brushed  -;Fa  u'ar  that  dki  honour  to  his  htari,  who 
it  was  thai  \vas  jusr  buned  *  An  p  ease  your  ho- 
nour/ said  the  man,  'tis  a  poor  girl  that  was" brought 
from  her  friends  by  a  cruel  man,  who  left  hv  r  when 
she  was  big  with  child,  and  married  another/— 
Montraville  stood  motionless,  and  the  man  proceed- 
ed — '  I  met  her  myself  not  a  fortnight  since  one 
night  all  w  t  and  cold  iu  the  street ;  she  went  to 
Madam  Cray  ton's — she  would  not  take  her  in,  and 
t  so  the  poor  Uiing  went  raving  mad/ — Montraville 
could  bear  no  more  ;  he  struck  his  hands  against  his 
forehead  with  violence  ;  and  exclaiming  *  poor  mur- 
dered Charlotte !'  ran  with  precipitation  towards  the 
place  where  they  wrre  heaping  the  earth  on  her  re- 
mains. *  Hold,  hold,  one  moment,'  said  he,  *  loose 
not  the  grave  of  the  injured  Charlotte  Temple  till  I 
have  taKen  vengeance  on  her  murderer.' 

*  Rash  young  man/  said  Mr.  Temple,  *  who  art 
thou  that  thus  disturbejst  the  last  mournful  rites  of 
the  dead,  and  rudely  breakest  in  upon  the  grief  of 
an  afflicted  father  ?' 

4  If  thou  art  the  father  of  Charlotte  Temple/ 
said  he,  "gazing  at  him  with  mingled  horror  and 
amazement—'  it  thou  art  her  father—— —  1  am  Mon- 
traville '  1  hen  falling  on  his  knees,  he  continued— 
'  Here  >s  my  bosom.  1  bare  it  to  receive  the  stroke 
I  merit.  Strike— -strike  now,  and  save  me  from  the 
misery  of  reflection/ 

'  Alas !'  sajct  Mr.  Temple,  *  if  thou  wert  the  se- 
ducer of  my  child,  thy  own  reflections  be  thy  pun- 
is  :i,iicjit.  1  wrest  not  the  power  from  the  hand  of 
OYin'potence  book  on  that  little  heap  of  earth; 
there  luist  tV*ou  buried  the  only  joy  of  a  fond  father. 
Jjor.k  at  it  often  ;  and  may  thy  heart  feel  such  true 
sorrow  as  may  merit  the  mercy  of  heaven/  He 
tamed  from  him  ;  and  Montraville  starting;  up  from 
tiie  ground,  where  he  had  thrown  himself,  and  at 
that  instant  remembering  the  perfidy  of  Belcour, 
flew  like  lightning  to  his  lodgings.  Belcour  was  in- 
toxicated i  AlontravUle.  impetuous ;  Uiey  fought,  and 


[  105  ] 

the  sword  of  the  latter  entered  the  heart  of  his  ad* 
versary.  He  fell,  and  expired  almost  instantly.  Mon- 
traville  had  received  a  slight  wound  ;  and  overcomes 
%vith  the  agitation  of  his  mind  and  loss  of  blood,  was 
carried  in  a  state  of  insensibility  to  his  distracted  wife* 
A  dangerous  illness  and  obstinate  delirium  ensued, 
during  which  he  raved  incessantly  for  Charlotte  ; 
but  a  strong  constitution,  und  the  tender  assuidties 
of  Julia,  in  time  overcome  the  disorder.  He  reco~ 
vered,  but  to  the  end  of  his  life  was  subject  to  sevei* 
fits  of  melancholy  and  while  he  remaned  at  Ntw- 
York  frequently  retired  to  the  church  yard,  where 
lie  would  weep  over  the  grave,  and  regret  the  un- 
timely fate  of  the  lovely  Charlotte  Temple. 


CHAP.  XXXV. 

CONCLUSION, 

SHORTLY  after  the  interment  of  his  daughter, 
Mr.  Temple  with  his  dear  little  charge,  and  her 
nurse,  set  forward  for  England.  It  would  be  im- 
possible to  do  justice  to  the  meeting  scene  between 
him,  his  Lucy,  and  her  aged  father.  Evrry  heart 
of  sensibility  can  easily  conceive  their  feelings.  Af- 
ter the  first  tumult  of  grief  was  subsided,  Mrs.  Tem- 
ple gave  up  the  chief  of  her  time  to  her  grand-child, 
and  as  she  grew  up  and  improved,  began  to  almost 
fancy  she  again  possessed  her  Charlotte- 

It  was  about  ten  years  after  these  painful  events, 
that  Mr,  and  Mrs.  Temple,  having  buried  their  fa- 
ther, were  obliged  to  come  to  London  on  particular 

business,  and  brought  the  little  Lucy  with  them 

They  had  been  walking  one  evening,  when  on  their 
return  they  found  a  poor  wretch  skting  on  the  steps- 
of  the  door-  She  attempted  to  rise  as  they  approach- 
ed, but  from  extreme  weakness  was  unable,  and  af- 
ter several  fruitless  efforts  tell  back  in  a  fit.  Mr, 
Temple  was  not  one  ot  those  men  who  stand  to  con- 
sider whether  by  assisting  an  object  in  distress  thg'y 


I  106  ] 

Miall  not  inconvenience  themselves,  but  instigated 
by  the  impulse  of  a  ix.-ble  feeling  heart,  in, mediate- 
ly <  ;dered  her  to  be  carried  into  the  house,  and  apro- 
per  restorative  ippli  -d. 

She  soon  recovered  ;  and  fixing  her  eyes  on  Mrs, 
Temple,  cried—41  You  know  not,  Madam,  vvhc't  you 
do  ;  you  know  not  whom  you  are  relieving,  or  v  ou 
"would  curse  me  in  the  bitterness  of  your  heart. 
Co •«.  e  not  near  me,  Madam,  ;  shall  contaminate  you. 
I  a  ,  the  viper  that  stu<sg  you1*  peace-  1  am  the 
•woman  who  turned  the  poor  Charlotte  out  to  perish 
in  the  street.  Heaven  have  mercy  !  I  see  her  now," 
continued  she,  looking  at  Lucy  ;  *  such  was  the  fair 
bud  of  innocence  that  my  vile  arts  blasted  ere  it 
ivas  half  blown." 

ft  was  in  vain  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Temple  intreat- 
ed  her  to  be  composed  and  to  take  some  refresh- 
ment. She  only  drank  halt  a  glas.>  of  wine  ;  and  then 
told  the:ii  that  she  had  been  separated  from  her 
husband  seven  years,  the  chief  of  which  she  ha4 
passed  in  riot,  dissipation,  and  vice,  till,  overtaken 
verty  and  sickness,  she  had  been  reduced  to 
pa  t  vv  th  every  valuable,  and  thought  only  of  ending 
her  life  in  prison;  when  a  benevolent  friend  paid 
her  debts  and  released  her  ;  but  that  her  illness 
increasing  she  had  no  possible  means  of  supporting 
heiselr  and  her  friends  yere  weary  of  relieving  her, 
**  I  have  fa-ted,"  said  .she,  *  two  days,  and  last 
night  lay  my  aching  head  on  the  cold  pavemeut : 
indeed  it  was  but  just  that  I  should  experience  those 
miser.!-  s  myself  which  1  had  unfeelingly  inflicted  on 
others.' 

Greatly  as  Mr.  Temple  had  reason  to  detest 
Mrs.  Cravton,  he  could  not  behold  her  in  this  dis- 
tress without  some  emotions  of  pity.  He  gave  her 
shelter  that  night  benc  ath  his  hospitable  roof,  and 
the  next  day  got  her  admission  into  a  hospital; 
•where  having  lingered  a  few  weeks,  she  died,  a  strik- 
ing example  that  vice,  however  prosperous  in 
the  beginning,  in  the  end  leads  only  to  misery  and 
shame. 

FINIS. 


